


Silence is Loudest

by codarra



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Bottom Derek Hale, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Bullying, Deaf Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Homophobia, Hurt!Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Sensory impairment, deaf!Stiles, pining!derek, sick!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:11:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 132,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codarra/pseuds/codarra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monday dawned fresh and cool and with a lack of Stilinski. </p><p>The buzz in the school changed over the week, once Derek started paying attention to it. No longer was the student body talking about where the students were going on vacation, or lack thereof for the more middle-class populace. They were bandying about a different series of words instead. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Accident.”</i><br/><i>“Car crash.”</i><br/><i>“Hit and run.”</i><br/><i>“Sick. Really sick.”</i><br/><i>“Disease.”</i><br/><i>“Brain damage.”</i><br/><i>“Brain dead.”</i><br/><i>“Stilinski.”</i><br/><i>“Stilinski.”</i><br/><i>“Stilinski.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Missing

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first piece of published work in nearly a decade. To say I feel accomplished at this moment is quite an understatement. To say I'm not incredibly nervous is even more so. 
> 
> This is a multichaptered fic that is still a work-in-progress. I have some chapters written and many others planned out, and I hope to publish a new chapter every two weeks. I do reserve the right to publish sooner, though. 
> 
> I also dedicate this first chapter to [leviathanlost](http://www.leviathanlost.tumblr.com) on tumblr who has been there for me through thick and thin lately. Though we may be separated now, I will always be thankful for his friendship. 
> 
> Now, without further ado, enjoy!

Derek Hale walked into the cafeteria with a small smile on his face. Though he would admit to no one the reason for it, should anyone ask. He went quickly through the crowded lunch line, avoiding bumping into the milling students as he picked out his fruit and sandwich, par his usual routine. 

He sat down at his favourite table, available as it had been since his second year at Beacon Hills High. Other people sat there, too, and he didn’t mind. He had chosen this table for its vantage point, even though it wasn’t anywhere near the large windows overlooking the courtyard of the school. From here he could see basically the entire refectory, but his attention was almost always on one particular table. 

It was nearing the end of the semester, and Derek could feel it as an almost tangible thrill in the air. The other students were nearly buzzing in anticipation. He could hear them talking about what ski resort they were going to this break, and how it couldn’t compare to where they went last year. Derek shook his head as he opened his chocolate milk, something he had also done since years past. 

He looked around, casually, aimlessly—or so he hoped it would seem, should anyone take notice. He didn’t think anyone would, but one couldn’t be too cautious about such things. Derek frowned; something was off. He put down his chocolate milk and scanned the large, open room, with its long benched tables, again. This time, though, he was heedless of anyone looking at him.

He saw Scott McCall sitting in his usual place, looking carefree and oblivious to rest of the world—at least, that’s how he always appeared when the new Argent girl was around him. And that seemed to be most of the time in recent memory. But there was an empty space next to him that wasn’t ever empty. 

The space was suddenly occupied and Derek almost heaved a sigh of relief, until he saw who it was. Danny Mahealani had apparently been late getting through the lunch line—even though he usually brought his lunch, though Derek wouldn’t admit to knowing that either—and was taking the last available seat toward that end of the nearly cafeteria-wide table.

Derek got up from his seat and walked over to McCall. It took a few moments, and everyone else at the table stopping whatever they were doing to stare at Derek, before he even noticed that Derek was there. 

“McCall, where’s Stilinski?” Derek couldn’t believe he was breaking one of his prime directives in order to ask this. “I need to talk to him about some of the lacrosse equipment.”

Lydia Martin glanced up sharply from where she had been looking at her compact mirror, and then averted her gaze just as quickly when she noticed that Derek had seen.

“Stiles? I dunno, dude. I think he texted me and said he was out sick or something.” Scott reached for his backpack, presumably to take out his phone. “Have you guys heard anything?”

“Does it look like I make it my priority to know the whereabouts of the equipment manager, McCall?” Jackson Whittemore snarled. He noticed Derek glaring at him and creased his brow. Derek quickly schooled his features into what he hoped was a more neutral expression.

“McCall?” 

Scott had stopped what he was doing and had started frowning at Whittemore, in what Derek assumed was offence taken at the sake of his best friend.

“Well?”

“Oh, right, man. Sorry.” He finally brought his phone out of one of the numerous pockets of his pack—scratched, dinged and all-around weathered, just like the backpack—and brought up his messages. “Yeah, he said he’s sick. He’s probably faking to get out classes.”

“He probably finally figured out that it’s useless for him to come to classes if the only thing he can do is gnaw on his pencils and distract the teachers with idiotic questions,” Whittemore muttered. 

Derek limited himself to one venomous glower before turning his attention back to McCall. “Then I guess you’re on equipment duty today, McCall. Congratulations.” 

He turned on his heel and sauntered back over to his own table. Hopefully his own excuse held up, and a small part—or maybe not so small—also hoped that Stiles Stilinski wasn’t too ill…if he was ill at all. 

 

**********************

Derek returned to the cafeteria the next day and noticed that Stiles was gone again. The empty space wasn’t empty for long; someone who had lagged behind took it up quickly enough. For some reason, that bothered him, though he couldn’t fathom why. He refrained from going over to the table again, and mentioned in passing McCall in the locker room after classes were over that he was once again equipment manager. The groan Scott emitted could probably have been heard at least round the city, if not round the world.

The day after that proved to be the same. Stiles was still out of school. Derek tried to put it out of his mind that weekend, and he finished up the last of the major projects of the semester to hand in that week—the final week before winter break. Monday dawned fresh and cool and with a lack of Stilinski. 

The buzz in the school changed over the week, once Derek started paying attention to it again. No longer was the student body talking about where the students were going on vacation, or lack thereof for the more middle-class populace. They were bandying about a different series of words instead. 

_“Accident.”_  
 _“Car crash.”_  
 _“Hit and run.”_  
 _“Sick. Really sick.”_  
 _“Disease.”_  
 _“Brain damage.”_  
 _“Brain dead.”_  
 _“Stilinski.”_  
 _“Stilinski.”_  
 _“Stilinski.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edited:** 22 December. Just cleaning up.


	2. Seeking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The answers sought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this and enjoying this universe with me. I have so much planned for it, and I hope you stick with me! 
> 
> As always, a special thanks to [Vague_Shadows](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows) for her help as a muse, an inspiration, and a sounding board. 
> 
> Another shout out to tumblr user, and close personal friend of mine, [lunawho47](http://www.lunawho47.tumblr.com) for freely and willingly being a grammar beta even though she's not involved in this fandom. ^_^ Go check her out if you're a fellow Whovian! 
> 
> Now, time for the fic!

The week passed interminably but it eventually came to a close. Derek walked through the halls in the midst of the final rush to get out of the school building for that semester. Winter break had finally arrived, and the majority of the student body crashed through the halls in a cacophony of shouts and catcalls that, on a normal day, would have caused Derek to roll his eyes.

Derek didn’t that time. The rumour mill was still going strong, and Derek was still nowhere close to any real answers. The administration of the school hadn’t released information regarding Stiles Stilinski, if they had any. Students had been getting increasingly more implausible in their ideas as to what had happened. The worst Derek had heard was that Stiles, and perhaps his father, was dead.

He didn’t even want to try and fathom that. Surely the principal or someone on the school staff would have released word had they lost one of their own. The only time they would refrain from doing so was if it was part of some investigation, and the sheriff’s department had requested silence from all parties.

God, now he was getting way ahead of himself. He needed to stop and focus on this weekend. Hopefully he would get some answers then. Derek was picking up extra volunteer shifts at the station, adding onto the once a week he had already been doing.

Derek couldn't understand how these people seemed so unaffected. When the news hit the school, the theories began circulating, and the student body was ostensibly interested; but their piqued attention waned over the week as no new news arrived. He sighed--

"Oh, excuse me, Mr. Hale!" Mr. Harris said after bumping into him. Apparently Derek had been more lost in his thoughts than he had realised.

"Sorry, Mr. Harris." Derek ducked his head, a slight pink tingeing his cheeks. He hoped it wasn't obvious that he was mooning over someone.

"I'd love to stay and chat about your final project, but I have to get to some mandatory meeting about some challenged kid. As though he needs special treatment," Mr. Harris said, readjusting his glasses. "Have a good break and keep up the good work."

It wasn't until much later that Derek realised what "challenged kid" Harris might have meant.

************

Derek walked into chaos. Wearing his bright blue "Volunteer - Sheriff's Department" shirt, he was instantly recognised by one of the deputies and unceremoniously handed a box of files.

"Get to work," was the gruff utterance of the deputy before he veered off into the busy station.

Derek saw a lot of movement and activity, but he wasn't certain if he saw a lot of actual work being accomplished. The entire office seemed in disarray. He couldn’t believe that the sheriff would be allowing this to continue. 

He started the trek to his “office,” a word that he used sparingly since it was a converted storage closet that was mainly still used for storage. Deputies, staff and the like were all still surprised sometimes to open the door and find him sitting at the barely-fitting desk. A quick glance around showed no sign of the sheriff. That both answered the question of why the station was like this and made Derek’s anxiety increase. 

Derek huffed out a sigh when he saw his desk. Papers were piled high in mismatched stacks, overflowing from his inbox--a few were even on the floor, haphazardly strewn about. Apparently no one had done any filing since the last time he was here. 

How long had the sheriff been gone? 

***********

Eventually, Derek finished with his work and ventured back out into the station proper. Things had seemed to calm down some. Fewer deputies were running around and voices were more indoors-appropriate. The phones had finally stopped ringing, something Derek thought would never happen. 

He walked toward the lounge to pour himself a cup of coffee, hoping maybe the caffeine would help take the edge off the migraine that had been threatening by the third hour of staring at the computer and organising all of the paperwork. 

Rounding the corner to the cubby where the coffee machine was kept, he nearly ran into Shondra who was holding out a steaming cup of coffee. 

“Whoa, there," Shondra said with a wink. “Figured you could use a break. I was about to bring this to your corner office.” 

Nearly everyone joked at Derek for his position in the station and the location of his workspace, but Shondra always treated it like it was something funny just between the two of them. It was part of what drew him to her in the first place. Over the first few weeks of his volunteering here, aside from the jabs from the deputies, and the occasional two-sentence conversation with the sheriff, Derek never spoke to anyone. Shondra had made sure to change that. 

“Yeah, definitely.” Derek gratefully took the proffered cup and sighed in relief as the aroma overwhelmed his sense. “I was going insane. What's going on?” 

Shondra’s smile, usually the brightest thing in the station, faded as her brow creased in some emotion that Derek couldn’t quite place. She leaned back against the plain laminate countertop, crossing her arms and taking a breath. 

“Well, there are a bunch of rumours floating around.” Shondra’s troubled look deepened as she continued, “But I wouldn’t believe any of them.” 

Derek frowned. He easily remembered the theories being spouted by everyone, teachers and students both, at the school when the news was first revealed. He said as much to Shondra. 

“I would bet those are even worse than the ones I’m hearing here.” Shondra gave him a grim smile. “But all I know is the sheriff has been gone since late last week, and that it’s highly likely he is at the hospital. He called me recently and I could hear a beeping noise that reminded me of a heart monitor, anyway.” 

Derek’s eyes widened in shock. Since late last week? That was a frighteningly long time to be at the hospital. His mind flooded with questions. Was it serious? Fatal? Was it the sheriff? Or Stiles? 

“Has no one gone to visit him? Deputies or staff?” Derek had thought that the sheriff was one of the most well-liked and respected individuals of this town. 

Shondra’s smile was back, this time with a hint of what could have been pity. Or a knowing look. Derek wasn’t certain. 

“He didn’t tell me that he was in the hospital.” Derek opened his mouth to argue, but Shondra cut him off as she continued, “But he did ask not to be bothered. So no one has heard from him since.” 

Derek closed his mouth. _Well, that complicates things a little. Does nobody have any answers?_

“But, and I don’t say this lightly,” Shondra placed her hand on his shoulder, “I don’t think he would mind a visit from his favourite intern.” Derek opened his mouth to argue that if the sheriff asks to not be disturbed, should we not listen? But Shondra quickly continued, “Especially if said intern brought him some paperwork that desperately needs a look-see from the sheriff of this town—a town for which, might I add, he is still responsible.” 

At that moment, Derek could see why the sheriff had taken him to the side one moment during his first volunteer shift at the station and had said, “Do you see Shondra over there?” She had been standing in front of the desk of some deputy—since transferred to a different town, Derek later learned—who was visibly trying not to cower. “She might be ‘just an office manager,’ but she knows differently, I know differently, the entire station knows differently. And now so do you.” 

Shondra was a force of nature not to be trifled with. Derek was still skittish about asking what happened to that specific deputy. 

“Okay…” Derek was still a little dubious of Shondra’s insistence that his approach would be welcome, but his ever growing need to just _know_ eventually won out over any concerns over himself and his potentially tenuous position here at the station. 

It had been a dream of his since childhood to become a part of law enforcement in some form. His family had gifted him for years with various toys related to the profession, enabling his aspiration. But here he was, willing to give it up if necessary, to get answers. 

“What paperwork did you have in mind?” Derek asked, confidence in his voice showing now that he had decided on his course of action. 

Had he paid closer attention, perhaps Shondra’s smile, and what lay underneath, would have frightened him a little in how knowing it looked. 

*****************

Derek’s hands were shaking, papers fluttering, as he walked toward the front desk of the small hospital. The nurse there smiled up at him as he leaned against the counter. He realised with a jolt that the nametag on her scrubs read Melissa McCall, RN. It had slipped his mind when he heard the countless times McCall complaining that his mother had forgotten her dinner and so he would have to take it to the hospital, to her, that evening. 

“Can I help you?” Mrs McCall’s smile had slipped a little, and Derek became aware that he had just been staring for a few moments without speaking. 

Derek put on his best smile, hoping to assuage her probably rising suspicion. “Uh, sorry about that. I go to school with your son. Actually, we’re a part of the same lacrosse team.” 

This made her smile return in full force. “You’re Derek Hale, right? I’ve seen you at a couple of the games. I haven’t been able to attend as many this past season, but what can you do?” 

Derek laughed a little because it was the expected response. He was too nervous and distracted to really pay attention to her attempts at conversation. “So, uh. I need to see Sheriff Stilinski.” 

He blinked at the sudden, complete loss of her smile. 

“Nobody should know that he’s here. How do you know?” Mrs McCall stood up from her chair and leaned toward Derek. 

“Uh…Shondra?” Derek offered, inching away from the nurse’s now intimidating presence. His shoe squeaked on the waxed tiled floor, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He did jump when Mrs McCall barked out a laugh. 

“Oh, that woman. _Nothing_ gets by her.” She sat back down and laced her fingers together. “So, now that you know he’s here, which I shouldn’t have admitted, what do you need with him?” 

Derek tried to regain his composure. He held up the sealed envelope of papers. “I have some work that really needs his attention.” 

The RN reached out a hand for the parcel. “I can take those for you.” 

He quickly moved it out of her reach. “With all due respect, madam, you can’t. I’ve been instructed to hand these personally to the sheriff.” 

Mrs McCall gave a small smile that could have meant a myriad of things, but most likely revealed resigned amusement, and stood up again, pointing. “Take the elevators to the top floor. They’re in the room farthest down the hall. Visiting hours are almost over, so you only have a few minutes regardless.” 

“Thank you,” he said, walking away as quickly as he could without seeming to do more than walk. 

The passage in the elevator seemed at once ceaseless and too short. Derek’s hands shook in earnest again, and his pulse was all over the place. He couldn’t exactly say why he was feeling this way, except to acknowledge that he was dreading the absolute worst news. 

What he could potentially learn from this encounter. They were in the hospital, for fuck’s sake. And they’d been there for an indeterminate amount of time. Possibly from the first day Stiles was out sick from school. 

The chime of the elevator signaling the opening of its doors made Derek jump again. _God, I need to get a hold of myself. This is getting out of hand._

The corridor was eerily empty, but Mrs McCall had said visiting hours were nearly over, so perhaps everyone who could leave had done so. But as he passed several rooms, he noticed that they were all empty. Apparently, the sheriff had requested complete isolation. Or maybe Stiles had, but more than likely—from what Derek had seen in the department—it was the sheriff. 

He got to the end and realised that there were two terminal rooms; Mrs McCall hadn’t told him which side! His pulse ratcheted up even further, until he noticed flickering lights behind the shade of the window on the door, as though a television was on. 

Derek reached up a hand to knock on the door and paused. He unclenched his fist and looked at his trembling fingers. He took a few deep breaths to try and calm his pounding heart. He swept a hand over his hair, then immediately grimaced at the action. Was he some sort of 14-year-old girl? If his eyes tried to spy his reflection in the window, well, he couldn’t help it and no one saw. 

His knocking produced an immediate rustle inside the room, and Derek heard the scrape of a chair being moved across the white, sterile-looking floor. A voice—the sheriff’s Derek noted—started to say something, and then was cut off quickly. 

“Melissa?” The sheriff wondered as he opened the door. “Oh. Derek? What are you—?” 

Derek was distracted from hearing the rest of whatever the sheriff was saying by movement toward the back of the fairly large room. All the blinds were closed on the windows and no lights were on, but the room was partially illuminated from the light streaming in from the hallway. It perfectly lit up the bed and its occupant. 

Derek’s eyes were immediately drawn to his face. It was paler than normal, though still covered in a countless number of beauty marks he could remember tracing endlessly. But the eyes were what drew him in. Red-rimmed, they were glassy with unshed tears, and Derek could see tracks coursing down his face. 

Their eyes locked. Derek sucked in a breath as the world slowed. Absently, as though he were seeing it from outside perspective, he could feel the sheriff ushering him away from the doorway, could tell that it was closing. 

But in that moment, nothing else existed. Nothing but finally seeing Stiles. It was like a blow to the gut, looking at what that face held. Innumerable emotions were contained within those two deep brown eyes. A sense of great loss resonated within Derek suddenly, like the floor just gave way beneath him and he was about to drop. Pain echoed within Stiles’ eyes and Derek could feel it coursing in his veins. Immense sadness washed over him and he felt immeasurably cold. 

Suddenly all that was gone when the door finished closing and time caught up to Derek. Their gazes were immediately broken. The sensations were lessened, but Derek shivered at the remnants. 

“—son? Derek?” The sheriff’s voice finally broke through and Derek tore his eyes away from the door and took in the sheriff. He looked completely haggard—tired, deep circles under the eyes, what seemed like a permanent frown creased into his brow and around his lips. 

“I—” Derek cleared his throat. “What—?” His eyes flicked back to the door, willing an ability to see through it or for it to spontaneously open. 

“We’re handling it,” was the gruff reply. A little short, too, as though he didn’t want Derek pestering him about it. 

Derek’s pulse skyrocketed. “Handling it” did not give off a good connotation. What exactly was being handled? The fact that Stiles was ill? Or was it something more? Something…worse? 

The hallway started spinning, and Derek swayed a little on his feet. The sheriff’s expression turned to one of concern, and he put a hand on Derek’s shoulder. The contact helped anchor Derek. 

“Son, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” His hand started guiding him to a nearby waiting bay with some chairs and a television hanging on the wall in one of the corners (turned off, since no one else seemed to be in this wing). 

Derek sat heavily on one of the fabric-upholstered chairs, his hands tightly clenched around the envelope. The sheriff sat on a chair in the row across from him and gently took the packet of paperwork from him. 

“Is this why you’re here, Derek?” the sheriff asked. “Even though I specifically told Shondra I didn’t want to be bothered…” He continued under his breath, and Derek was sure he wasn’t supposed to hear that, but a tiny smile graced his face. 

“Yes, sir. Shondra said that these really needed your approval and look-through.” 

“Of course it was Shondra.” The sheriff shook his head but a fond grin overcame his gloomy expression. 

“Sir, if I might be frank?” At the sheriff’s sharp glance and nod, Derek continued, “They’re—people are talking. And not just at school. I’ve heard things on the streets. Some people…some are saying the worst has happened.” Derek couldn’t bring himself to say it outright—that people were saying Stiles was dead. Even though Derek could clearly tell that it wasn’t true, it still pulled at something inside him to think about it. 

“What are you getting at, Derek?” 

“Well, sir, I think you should issue a statement. I know it’s private, and you shouldn’t have to, but you’re also a public figure, and I think it would just be best if it came directly from you instead of letting rumours get out of hand.” 

The sheriff was silent for so long, Derek had to overwhelm every instinct that said to start fidgeting nervously. 

“You’re Stiles' friend, Derek?” he finally asked. 

“Yes, sir. We’re on the lacrosse team together.” A part of Derek squirmed internally, but it was at least obliquely true. They had had conversations and were friendly toward one another, in their few interactions. 

“I think you’re right. It’s something I’ve been chewing on for a couple of days—Melissa tells me some of the worst rumours—and to have it said by Stiles' peer… Well, I’d say it’s time to do it.” 

The sheriff stood up, and Derek mimicked him. 

“And I’m sure you want to be the first to know.” The sheriff clapped him on his shoulder. Derek opened his mouth to argue but he quickly continued, “Don’t worry, son, I’m just kidding. As Stiles’ friend and classmate, you should be concerned, and I’m grateful for that.” 

The sheriff took a deep breath before going on. What he said next completely floored Derek. He didn't know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't that. 

“Stiles has completely lost his hearing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm on tumblr as [codarra](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com) and I welcome you to join me there for fandom fanboying and -girling, conversation, anything you please!
> 
>  **Edited:** 22 December. Just cleaning up.


	3. Thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Stiles thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank each and every one of you for coming on this journey with me. I hope this chapter doesn't displease! 
> 
> Of course I want to thank [Vague_Shadows](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows) for her ceaseless support and patience in my writing. Slow build = slow writing, am I right? 
> 
> And a special thanks goes out to [lunawho47](http://www.lunawho47.tumblr.com) of tumblr for amazingly correcting my grammatical mistakes. Hey, I'm a self-professed grammarian, but nobody's perfect.

Stiles awoke slowly, blinking his eyes against the harsh hospital lights. He groaned before he caught himself. _I’m awake, but I didn’t wake up from this nightmare._

Almost immediately, he had to stop himself from letting the tears fall. It seemed as though he had done nothing else for the past week. Tears had streamed down his face from the moment he had woken up with the worst pain he could ever imagine pulsating and pounding through his head.

Stiles could clearly remember the agony of what had happened, though he tried to forget. Screams had ripped from his throat even though the noise in his head had been a cacophony of sound that drowned out everything else. He remembered barely being able to open his eyes because the sunlight shining through the blinds had been too incredibly bright. Indescribable agony had coursed through his head, beating in time with his heart. 

Stiles had wondered at what point his head would actually burst and if relief would finally come when that happened. Seconds had passed like years; time stretched toward infinity, slowing down but not stopping. 

Flickering lights reflected on the wall he was facing brought Stiles back to the present. He shifted slightly and saw that the television was still on, showing some infomercial for yet another redundant cooking product that could make Stiles’ life much simpler, if the graphics were to be believed. 

His dad was rising from his chair and heading to the closed door. Stiles wondered vaguely if someone had knocked or if the sheriff was just going to leave the room for one his infrequent absences. In the days that Stiles had been in this hospital room, his father had barely left it. Stiles was and always would be grateful for his father, but sometimes he wished to be left alone. 

_That door…_ Stiles had barely been allowed out of it since he had been interned there. And just yesterday he had seen none other than Derek Freaking Hale outside of it. Of all the people he hadn’t wanted to see him like this, Derek made the top five. 

And the way he had just stared at Stiles. It riled Stiles like nothing else. He had seen the pity growing in Derek’s eyes, had felt it like it was something tangible caught between their gazes. And Stiles hated him for it. Passionately. He couldn’t believe that someone had seen him like this, much less the captain of the lacrosse team. 

Lights from the bedside lamp glinted off the floor tiles near the door, and he vaguely wondered how many of them made up the floor of the hospital room versus how many comprised the ceiling before the flickering of the television again distracted him again. The first infomercial had ended and a new one began airing, this time peddling some sort of workout video series. 

Stiles sighed and shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. He wasn’t supposed to walk around on his own. He had tried that one time only to receive a figurative rap on the wrist from the nurses, chastising him for doing such a reckless thing. If he was feeling up to joking, he might have said, “You know, this is just going in one ear and out the other.” 

It had been some time since his last dose of Adderall, and it was showing. Stiles could barely keep his concentration on a single thought before he had another or was distracted by some random action. The doctors had wanted to make sure there were no other complications before they added his routine medicine back into the mix. He couldn’t remember if today was the day he was getting a low dose or if it was tomorrow. Stiles sort of recalled someone writing down that—unnecessarily, but whatever would ease their consciences—it would happen in a couple days, but he couldn’t quite place when that happened. Yesterday? Or the day before? 

Stiles figured it didn’t really matter. He obviously wasn’t in control of things here and requests for that to change fell on deaf ears. 

Stiles barked out a laugh that was quickly stifled before it could turn hysterical at his unfortunate choice of words. 

Movement caught his eye. A shadow sped across the blind-covered window. A few more shadows quickly followed, blurred shapes crossing the tiny area rapidly. Stiles presumed they were birds, taking flight from trees in the courtyard. He had spent much of the day yesterday in a chair looking out of the window. The day had been overcast and not too bright, so his eyes had been able to handle it. A lot of things had proved recently to be sensory overload, Stiles had found out. He’d been on a steady diet of bland food for a while, and couldn’t have any overhead lights on in the room for the first few days. Everything was slowly getting better. 

The birds made him wonder what it would be like to fly. He’d thought about that a lot in his life, especially as a child. There were quite a few trips to urgent care that could chalked up to his trying to fly in some form another. Stiles had been obsessed with birds as a child. He was sure he had read every children’s book that were written about birds—fiction or not—and maybe even a few that weren’t written with children in mind as an audience. 

Talking about birds, among a plethora of other topics, was one of his favourite things to do, as his classmates quickly learned. He could rattle off any number of facts about his preferred species, and he would readily tell you why they were better than all the rest. 

Stiles let out another laugh, this time wet with unshed tears, at the  
reminder of meeting his best friend for a time—Scott McCall. 

**********

Stiles walked into kindergarten class with a giant smile on his face. He had just finished reading _Hello, My Name is Ruby_ earlier that morning and his mom said that they could finally check out _Birds, Nests and Eggs_ from the library because the nice old librarian lady—she always had a funny smell; not bad, really, but like she was a book herself—had finally found a copy from somewhere. He thinks his mom said where, but he didn’t remember. Hello, My Name is Ruby wasn’t very informative, but he liked it a lot because the pictures in it were like the ones his mom and daddy hung up on the fridge that he had drawn! He was almost out of his box of crayons at home, but Mommy said Daddy would bring some after shopping tonight. That was exciting. 

The book from the library was supposed to be the best. It had tonnes of great pictures. And it was supposed to teach you all about the birds in the whole world! 

“Well, not the whole world, Mr. Stilinski,” the librarian had interrupted his quiet shout—they had been in a library, after all. Stiles had giggled and told her that was his daddy’s name and his name was Stiles! “Of course,” she had said with a big smile as she looked at him from behind her desk. He was almost big enough to look over the top without being on his tippy toes, but not yet. His mom had measured him that morning, too! “This book is just about the more common birds you’d find in the trees and parks around here, child. Not quite around the world.” 

She had then gone on to ask a few questions to his mommy that he hadn’t paid attention to because he had been so excited about the new book! 

So that’s why he walked into Mrs. Harper’s classroom with a big smile on his face. Today was a good day, and hopefully he could share it with his friends. Mrs. Harper always let them goof around for the first few minutes of class. She used a pretty big word for it. He thinks it might have been “socialising,” but he wasn’t sure. 

He looked around to see if he could spot his friends. Sure enough they were toward the back corner playing near the big blocks that Stiles liked to use to build forts and castles. Danny, Lydia and Jackson were all talking together. Lydia had a book in her hands, and that made Stiles’ smile grow even bigger—something he didn’t think was possible. He hoped that his face didn’t split in two like his daddy joked about at home. 

Stiles walked up to them and bounced on the balls of his feet. He didn’t fail to notice that Lydia rolled her eyes and Jackson sighed heavily. Danny’s face remained unchanged. Stiles’ smile fell a little, but it came back in full force when he took in a breath to start talking about the new book he was going to get. 

Jackson held up a hand. “Don’t you ever stop?” 

Stiles blinked a few times. “Stop what?” Inside his head, he knew what Jackson was talking about. It was not the first time Jackson had asked, much less his other friends in the class. 

“Talking. Just…stop, okay? No one wants to hear about stupid birds. We’re learning how to add and subtract today. So just go away,” Lydia swept her beautiful strawberry hair behind her shoulder and walked around him. 

Jackson and Danny followed quickly after. They always followed Lydia wherever she went. Stiles sometimes tried to follow, but they just always kept moving or told Mrs. Harper that he was bothering them. Mrs. Harper seemed to know or understand the truth and never put him in time out in the corner but directed him to some new book she always had on hand or some new game that he could play. He was always happy to do something new. 

Now, though, Stiles stood in the corner for a few minutes to try and keep his face from crying. He didn’t want to cry in class, not again. This happened too often for him to keep crying over it. He didn’t want to worry Mrs. Harper or have her call his mommy again. That had been completely embarrassing the first time it had happened. 

So he stood there in the corner until he could bring the smile back—he was still excited about the book he had read this morning and the one he was getting this afternoon—and then played with the blocks over here by himself until Mrs. Harper called the class to order. Lydia was right—again, of course. They were learning about math today. Stiles enjoyed math. It usually meant that they got pieces of candy or fruit to eat after the lesson!

After the lengthy math lesson and then story time—Stiles had volunteered to read, as always, but Mrs. Harper gently reminded him that it was someone else’s turn to read—it was time for recess outside! One of the best times of the day, in Stiles’ mind. 

Stiles ran outside and spread his arms out under the warm sun. The weather was starting to get cooler—Stiles knew because his mom made him wear a jacket in the mornings on the way to the bus stop, but he took it off on the bus because it was still too hot. 

He saw that his friends were near the swings and he ran over there to join them. He jumped on a swing and pushed his little legs—they were growing, though!—to get moving—higher, higher! He closed his eyes as he started moving faster, reveling—that was a new word his mommy had taught him; Mrs. Harper had been so proud when he taught it to her; it’s important to share knowledge, after all—in the feel of the wind moving through his hair, pushing it back and forth, and the sun on his face. 

“Did you know that a goose found in Asia can fly over the Himalayan Mountains? That’s like 21,000 feet! Really high!” Stiles giggled. “I wonder what it’s like to fly. Do you ever wonder? I bet it would be awesome! The highest flying bird is known as a griffin! At like 30,000 feet. I don’t think we’d be able to breathe very well. My mommy told me that it’s harder to get oxygen and stuff the higher you go.” 

Stiles opened his eyes and nearly started crying again. He was all alone. He didn’t know when Jackson and the others had left, but they were all the way on the other side of the playground on the jungle gym. 

He decided that since he was alone on this side of the playground—Mrs. Harper always told him the swings were by themselves because fewer kiddos would get hurt running around the swings, though he wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that—it was okay to cry now. No one would see him. 

He didn’t know why they kept doing this; it wasn’t the first time, either. He was just trying to tell them all the neat stuff he had learned about birds. They were his favourite, after all. But no one seemed to want to listen. It wasn’t just Jackson, Lydia and Danny. None of his other friends wanted to hear him. And he didn’t think it was because he didn’t listen to them. He always wanted to hear what they had to say. 

But he was always pushed away and told, “You talk too much, Stiles.” Or they would just ignore him or tell on him for some reason. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, was he? His momma always told him she loved to hear his voice. All the time. Sometimes she seemed to say it many times a day. Mrs. Harper never seemed to get onto him about it. He just didn’t understand.

Eventually his face stopped crying and he wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket—Mrs. Harper had made sure that they were all wearing some sort of covering before they were allowed outside. He made to get off the swing set when he saw a boy coming his way. 

Stiles didn’t know this boy, and he hadn’t been in his class, so he decided the boy must be a new kid in Miss Fleur’s class. He wasn’t sure if he should leave and let the boy swing alone or if he should stay. His daddy always said it was nice to make new friends, so he kicked out his legs and started swinging again. 

The boy plopped down on the swing right next to Stiles. He tried not to grin too much. There were a whole bunch of other swings and he had chosen the one right next to him, though. That meant he would want to be friends, too, right? 

Stiles immediately noticed the boy’s very messy hair—like he hadn’t been able to brush it this morning—and a little spot of toothpaste on his green t-shirt with awesome pictures of dinosaurs. Stiles’ mommy always made sure to help him with his hair and clothes because “it’s always best to look your best, but it’s okay not to sometimes.” Stiles liked his hair. He liked this kid’s hair, too. But he thought it would look better brushed. 

“Were you late?” Stiles asked after a few moments of silence, while the other boy was starting to swing, too. 

“Huh?” The boy turned to look at him. 

“Getting to school today. Were you late?” 

“Almost. My mom had to work late at her new job, and she missed her alarm, and we missed the bus so she had to drive me. I think I had, like, two seconds until the bell rang when I ran into my classroom.” He paused to take a deep breath. Stiles heard a little wheeze that almost wasn’t there. “How’d you know?” 

“Just a guess,” Stiles replied with another smile. He always, always, always loved playing detective with his daddy. “My daddy’s a deputy at the sheriff’s station and a lot of grownups tell me I take after him.” 

“That’s so cool! My mom’s a nurse at the hospital downtown. We just moved here this weekend but she already has had to work a lot.” 

“Well, my name is Stiles, and it’s nice to meet you!” 

“Stiles? What kind of name is that?” 

Stiles looked sharply over at the new boy, but he saw no venom in the boy’s face, only pure curiosity. “Well, it’s a nickname. Maybe one day I’ll tell you my real name. It’s pretty cool.” 

“Wow. You gave yourself a nickname? That’s awesome.” The new boy kicked out harder and swung higher than Stiles was, which of course made Stiles try and swing higher. “My name’s Scott, by the way. Scott McCall.” 

“Scott, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” Stiles reached out and grabbed Scott’s hand. Scott looked down at the tiny fingers that were holding his and then back up at Stiles with a big smile on his face. “Hey, you wanna hear about the world’s highest flying birds?” 

********* 

Stiles wiped the tears from his eyes on his hospital gown. He desperately wished they would let him wear his clothes, but they wouldn’t in case of some emergency. What emergency he wasn’t sure. 

He and Scott had been the best of friends, for a very long time. It wasn’t until the beginning of high school that things had changed. But change was inevitable—wasn’t that what everybody always said? And it had definitely happened, whether or not they were ready. 

They had grown up. Scott had outgrown his asthma, or at the very least, the worst of his symptoms had dissipated with time. He had always wanted to get involved with sports, but his mother had been protective of him. Now his doctor seemed to think that because he had grown so much, it could easily be managed with the right medication and physical activity—like sports—wouldn’t be a problem anymore. 

So the story went that they tried out for lacrosse the first moment they could. Stiles definitely wasn’t really team-sports-inclined, but he had tagged along for Scott’s sake. God knows that Stiles had dragged him to many comic book stores and movies, so he felt like this could be a good thing. 

A bonus was that it that would have equaled more bro time with his bud. Ever since Scott had gotten that job at the veterinary clinic—Stiles would always say that Deaton was a bit off in the head, and no one could persuade him otherwise—their bro-dates had gone to the wayside. Scott was always working. He wanted to get a motorbike instead of having to ride that damn bicycle everywhere. 

Of course, the rest of the story was that Scott became first string—not really a surprise. He was a natural talent. With Stiles’ klutzo-mania, as he himself liked to call it, he definitely wasn’t. He had barely made second string, and Stiles couldn’t help but think that it was just because Coach didn’t want to break the two of them up—never let it be said that Coach Finstock wasn’t a softy—and because he needed someone to be equipment manager. 

Scott quickly became a part of that crowd, the one that included Jackson, Lydia and Danny, and Stiles wasn’t. He sat at their table but he had let the conversation wash around him. Scott talked with him of course, but no one else tried to ease him in. And Stiles didn’t begrudge him that world. Everyone needed new friends. He had just never understood why he couldn’t be a part of it. 

And now he would never be. Stiles was deaf and he had to live with that. Nothing could change it. Nothing _would_ change it. And that was…okay. Well, it wasn’t. But it eventually would be, right? 

That’s what the therapists were trying to tell him. Some days, like today, it was incredibly hard to believe. Others, it was nearly possible. They had come in here and immediately latched on his refusal to speak, even though they knew he could. What had happened inside his head hadn’t made him mute—only completely deaf. 

At the very least, they had wanted him to use the whiteboard and markers they had found. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to write out every word he was thinking. That would have taken eons. His father had offered to go get his laptop but he had firmly shaken his head as a no. 

Eventually the therapists had tired of their futile attempts to get him to speak or write and they had begun signing at him and writing out what they were signing, as a sort of introduction to American Sign Language. 

Stiles had laughed abruptly, startling them. They had looked at each other and then at him and finally at his father, for some sort of explanation. 

Stiles began signing back. “ _Vous croyez que vous me connaissez? Sortez! Sortez!_ ” 

The therapists—he would never be able to remember their names; he just hoped they never came back—had sat there, completely dumbfounded. He had sat there, refusing to go on, and refusing to explain. He had glowered at them until they shifted uncomfortable on the seats they had wheeled in for their “session” with him. 

His father had finally broken in. Stiles could only presume—he hadn’t watched his dad’s lips—that he had told the two psychiatric specialists that he was using French Sign Language. They had eventually given up and had left the room after conversing for a while with his father. 

Stiles had turned to the wall and had refused to acknowledge his dad for the rest of the day. 

Stiles did the same now, turned his back to the door, though his father was still gone. 

_I was always the boy who talked too much. Now I’ll be the boy who doesn’t talk at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feel free to join me on [tumblr](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com) with comments, questions, or anything else! I am mainly a Sterek and Destiel blog, but really, I put whatever I feel like on there. Thank you so much for reading this, and I hope you join me next time, too!


	4. Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which there is a seminar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is! The long ~~hopefully~~ awaited fourth chapter! It's a bit longer (read: 2K longer) than the last chapter, but I'm not anything if I'm not a slow-build author. 
> 
> This time I want to make sure to give special thanks to my friend and confidant [musicsetsmysoulalight](http://www.musicsetsmysoulalight.tumblr.com) of Tumblr. ~~He finally got one so I felt compelled to finally mention him.~~. He's not a part of this fandom; hell, he's not even fandom-adjacent, but he puts up with my doubts, my worries, and sticks with me 'til the end. And I wanted to make sure he knows that I greatly appreciate that. He's relatively new on tumblr, as I mentioned, so go follow him. He's very into music and cars--two things I'm relatively apathetic toward. 
> 
> And as always, a thank you to [lunawho47](http://www.lunawho47.tumblr.com) for being a grammarian's grammarian. ^_^ And one to [packdontendwithblood](http://www.packdontendwithblood.tumblr.com) who always waits patiently for my writing. 
> 
> Now for the bad news: I have two exams next week, so it will probably be another full two weeks before I can update again. I hope this longer chapter will keep you sated until then. 
> 
> Happy reading!

Derek slung his pack down onto the floor, cringing slightly when it caused the wall to shake and rattle the keys that hung there on the “Hale” plaque. He had to remember to stop doing that—something that he told himself every time he came home. 

“Derek Alexander Hale! What did I tell you about slamming doors and throwing your stuff down wherever you feel like it?” Talia’s voice carried over to Derek in the foyer from where she was cooking—meatballs, from the smell; one of Derek’s favourites—in the kitchen. 

“Yeah, sorry, Ma!” Derek picked up his bag with a heavy sigh—it had been a long morning—and began his ascent of the stairs to his room. 

It was only Monday, the first of winter break, but Derek felt like he had been sitting at his desk for a full month of Mondays. The sheriff had made a surprise visit, signalling that the Stilinskis were finally out of the hospital. He had only stayed for a short time; he had met with his higher-up deputies for updates on cases—though there was a shortage of those; Beacon Hills had been fortunately quiet on the crime front for a while—and essential personnel on the status of the station. That had meant Shondra, of course. 

Derek had been surprised when Sheriff Stilinski had made it a point to stop by his cupboard-office. He had jumped up at the officer’s appearance and had cringed when he knocked over one of the mops—thanking whoever was responsible once again for having moved the chemicals once he started working there more frequently; Shondra, most likely. 

“Uh, Sheriff!” Derek had tried to get out, looking with alarm at the debris scattered all over his workspace. It had been covered with paperwork. This week’s assignment was to look over filed papers from the past work and the digital copies and mark any discrepancies for further looks-through. A tedious necessity, Shondra had told him that morning, before the sheriff had showed up. 

“Hey, Derek.” The sheriff had reached up a hand and rubbed the back of his neck—a clear sign of nerves, if Derek had ever seen one. 

_What in the world is he gonna tell me?_ Derek had thought frantically. _Am I…fired?_

Derek slumped onto his bed with another deep sigh and brought a hand up over his eyes as he remembered. 

“Well, son, I’m not sure how to say this.” The sheriff had taken a deep breath and looked Derek straight in the eye, who had then feared for the worst. “But I just wanted to thank you for helping get my head out of my ass. Being in that hospital for so long… Well, let’s just leave it at my thanking you.” 

Stilinski had nodded, then, and walked away. Derek had stood frozen there, completely in shock—probably from the absolute one-eighty that the conversation had taken versus what he had been expecting. 

Derek must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew his door slammed shut and a giant _something_ was crushing his chest. Derek grunted at the sudden intrusion on his person. 

“Get off me, Laura!” He tried to garble out, but long, brown hair caught in his mouth. He shoved and the weight moved, rolling off to the side. “You’re sweating on everything!” Derek complained at her. 

“Yeah, Derek. I’m the reason you can’t have nice things.” She rolled back over to look at him, eyes sparkling with mirth. 

“Damn straight, you are.” Derek put his arm back over his eyes, trying to get comfortable again. “Wake me when school starts back up.” 

“Come on, Derek. We and the world all know you aren’t—” Laura cut off with a grunt as Derek shoved her again, this time a little harder. Laura ended up rolling off the bed and collapsing into a fit of laughter. 

“Seriously? Get out.” Derek turned onto his stomach, planning on ignoring Laura for the rest of her tenure in his room. 

“Well, fine. I guess you don’t want to know what’s going on at the school tonight.” Laura flipped her hair over her shoulder as Derek turned his head sharply to glance at her. “I’m going to take a quick shower. Mom wants you to come down and set the table.” 

Derek sat up and threw a pillow at the quickly retreating form of his older sister. He knew it would be pointless to try and glean more information from her; she could hold onto secrets like moss clings to a tree; he should know. 

When Derek walked into the kitchen, his dad was placing a stack of dishes and cutlery on the table. He looked up and saw Derek and gave him a quick smile in greeting. 

“Oh good, you’re here. The game was just getting good!” He tossed a pile of cloth napkins at him and _scurried_ back into the family living room with the larger television. 

Derek shook his head at him. This was how most dinners went. No matter how many times Derek and Cora tried to explain how their DVR worked, he always rambled at them about how if his father before him watched the games live, he would, too. 

Talia poked her head in from the kitchen. “Are you okay, honey?” She brushed her hands onto her apron. Whenever David joked about his father, Talia liked to chime in with a comment about her mother and having had sewn her own aprons from the young age of seven. 

Derek turned to look at her, a small frown creasing his brow at her worried expression. “What?” He placed a plate on the mat, followed by the silverware. “Yeah, of course. It was just a long morning at the station.” 

“I knew you shouldn’t have picked up so many hours at that place!” Talia moved back into the kitchen. Her voice carried to him over the sounds of stirring. “You’re just seventeen, Derek. You should be out and having fun, not being a gopher at a police station.” 

“Mom, we’ve talked about this,” Derek said in what he was a placating tone and not the exasperated one he wished to use as he set down the next plate. 

“I know, sweetie. But I’m a mother.” She came back in, hands covered in oven mitts, carrying a large bowl of spaghetti and meatballs. They usually ate dinner early on Mondays since both Talia and David had meetings in the evenings with various organisations. “I think it’s written in the Constitution that I’m allowed to worry. And you can’t argue with a document signed by so many men in wigs.” 

Derek rolled his eyes at yet another example of just exactly where Laura got her sense of humour—or lack thereof, as he always said. 

“Yeah, Mom. I’m sure it is.” 

One oven mitt hit him directly in the face, and when it fell onto the plate he had just placed, Talia was exiting the dining room, shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Derek tossed it at her and shouted in victory as it hit her square between the shoulder blades. 

Derek’s head snapped forward slightly as something hit it from behind. He turned to look to see Laura descending the stairs, one sock on, the other—at his feet. 

“Do you always have to take her side?” Derek glowered at her, tossing the sock back. 

“Us little ole womenfolk gotta stick together, you know.” Laura sashayed backwards into the kitchen. “Else you big men could do us injury.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him in what he figured she meant to be flattering. 

“That’s great, Laura!” Talia exclaimed, coming up behind her with a spoon covered in red sauce. “You can cook from now on!” 

Laura’s face blanched at that. “You know, I agree with Derek, here. He can take on a lame volunteer job if he wants.” 

Derek’s glower grew from the smile that took over when Talia one-upped her just then. “It’s not a lame volunteer job, Laura! I—I’m helping people!” 

Laura laughed as she dodged Talia’s intimidating spoon. “You mean you’re helping them help people as you sit in your rather non-proverbial closet.” 

“Laura!” Both Talia and Derek exclaimed, though for most likely exceedingly differing reasons. 

“Family! Do you not realise that the game is on?” David’s voice thundered through their bickering, not unkindly. 

“David Craig Hale, if you don’t get yourself in here in the next second, I’m going to cancel that damn sports package!” Talia declared in a completely serious tone. 

Derek figured she was only joking; he knew she enjoyed watched some games with her husband, but sometimes it was safer to err on the side of caution with her. She was always a stickler when it came to family dinner at least three times a week. These occasions were getting more and more difficult as her children grew and took on interests and responsibilities away from the home. 

Derek had caught her on more than one instance where she had stood staring sadly at all the food she had cooked because she had forgotten Laura was expected at a volleyball practice, Derek was scheduled for an evening shift and David had had some meeting somewhere. 

She had just packed it up with a smile and sent some with Derek to take and share at the station and then had put the rest away for leftovers later. 

“Okay, okay! I’m here.” David sat down at the seat in front of which Derek was just setting the final plate and cutlery. 

Derek quickly ran up the stairs to try and find Cora, Noah and Elijah. The latter two were playing some video game—one he was sure their mom didn’t know about, especially given their reactions when he came into the rec room. 

He quirked an eyebrow as they tried—flailed—to get the remote and turn the television off. “Come on, brats. It’s time for dinner.” 

He walked down the hall and knocked gently at Cora’s door. A lack of an answer wasn’t surprising considering the music that could be felt vibrating that end of the large house. 

Derek opened the door and immediately started to laugh before he fumbled for his phone. Just then Cora stopped dancing to what he figured was One Direction and _screamed_ at him like—well, like a fourteen-year-old girl, he supposed. 

She paused her iPod and shoved him out the door and slammed it; she had pretty good strength, though anger right probably fuelled it right then. 

Derek chuckled some more and called through the door, “Dinner’s ready, Cora! Come on!” Then he turned on his heel to head back to the dining room. He paused in the rec room to bundle up the twins who were taking their sweet time in packing up the controllers and other miscellany they had strewn about the floor. 

“You can—and had better—do that after dinner. I’m sure you have any homework finished?” Derek’s stern expression nearly dissolved into laughter at the panicked looks on the boys’ faces—complete mirror images, down to the one beauty mark that never failed to remind him… He didn’t allow himself to finish the thought. 

“Excited for spaghetti and meatballs?” Derek jostled them playfully as he trekked downstairs again. He plopped them on their chairs and took his seat opposite them. Sometimes he thought it was ridiculous how his parents made them sit assigned by age, with them flanking the heads of the table, but he loved them all the same. 

After the food had been passed around and the conversation started up, Derek looked around him. Gathered were the members of his family, amiably talking about their days and what they wanted to do over winter break. Elijah and Noah were especially excited for any potential snow. Cora wanted to go ice-skating twice a week—Laura knowingly teased her about one of Cora’s male classmates being interested in hockey and possibly being there, too. Cora blushed scarlet and dropped her jaw. Noah and Elijah giggled and muttered something that could have been, “Girls.” 

He smiled sadly as he was reminded by just how good he had it. His family was here and they were all happy. He was happy. Some people—one in particular—didn’t have it this amazingly well, and definitely wouldn’t anymore. 

Suddenly, Derek remembered Laura had mentioned something going on at the school, so of course he threw a roll at her to get her attention—something that earned him a reprimanding noise from both parents. 

“Hey, Laurel Leaf!” He used the nickname that for some reason always got under her skin. “You said something about the school doing something tonight?” 

Laura tore a chunk off her roll with her teeth after spreading some butter onto it like the disgusting teenaged girl she was before answering. “Oh, that. I’m not sure if you’d be interested…” Said in a tone of voice that meant she knew he would be more than interested. 

“What is it, Laura?” he gritted out, now annoyed at his older sister. He sometimes hated her exceedingly playful nature. 

“They’re starting a seminar on ASL tonight.” 

Derek dropped his fork wrapped in spaghetti with a splat onto his plate. He didn’t bother to see if any got on his clothes. “What?”   
“Derek, you could have gotten sauce all over you!” Talia’s voice tried to cut in, but as his focus narrowed down onto Laura, it sounded as though it was coming from far away. 

“They’re doing what, Laura?” He gripped his pants to keep his hands from shaking. He didn’t know why he was reacting like this. “When does it start?” 

Laura leaned back to look at the small grandfather clock in the hallway that was adjacent to the dining room, connected via French double doors that were currently thrown open. 

“Uh… Whoops? Five minutes ago.” 

“Shit!” Derek shoved his chair back and stood up, rushing over to the hallway where the keys and his coat were hanging. 

“Derek, language!” David’s deep voice rumbled with the beginnings of anger. 

“Where do you think you’re going in the middle of family dinner?” 

“Uh, sorry, Mom. Just leave the dishes and I’ll do them when I get home. I forgot about this thing; they’re giving extra credit in a couple of my AP classes if I go. I’ll be back later!” He answered his mother as he retrieved his coat and put it on, exiting the front door before anyone could respond. 

He almost ran into Uncle Peter who was reaching out a hand for the doorknob as Derek ran out. “Oh, hey, Peter. Sorry, gotta run!” 

Derek vaguely heard Peter ask, “Was I not invited to yet another magical Hale family dinner?” as the man closed the door behind him. 

******************

Derek was panting as he reached the classroom where the seminar was being held. He had made the foolish mistake of not pausing to look at the sign outside the school that advertised the seminar and instead just had tried to find the room himself. This resulted in him running basically through the entire school before he finally heard voices. 

He looked at his watch to determine that he was fifteen minutes late. He took a deep breath before slowly opening the door in the back of the room. 

“Ah, Derek.” 

Ms Morrell’s voice startled him into looking up. 

“Uh, sorry? It won’t happen again.” 

“Of course, Derek. I was wondering if I would see…any more students show up.” The pause seemed deliberate, as though the counsellor changed tracks in the middle of her sentence. “If you could take a seat? I will continue.” 

She waved her hand in the general direction of the front row, where there was an empty seat next to—Sheriff Stilinski. His presence made Derek quickly glance around to make sure… 

“Derek? Please.” 

Derek walked to his seat and sat down next to the sheriff, who gave him a small smile and nod in greeting. Derek returned the greeting in a similar manner. 

“Well, as I was saying. Learning a new language at any time, especially after grade school age, can be an enormous undertaking. Learning a language that is completely visual, something not encountered in everyday life, is an entirely different level of mastery.” 

Morrell walked slowly between the rows of seated men and women and students, clearly going for some cliché teacher role seen in the movies. Derek took her absence from the front of the room to scan across it: He saw mainly teachers from the school, mixed with some members of the community—he presumed anyway, since he knew they weren’t teachers at this school; though they could be at the elementary or middle school—and a spattering of students. There were three in the room, excluding him. He wondered if some of the teachers were giving extra credit. 

_Well, that would be convenient_.

“Immersion is the best in practice techniques out there for language learning. So from now on everything I say, I will also sign. You will do the same by the end of the week. And eventually the spoken word will be completely absent from this room.” 

Derek knew this was a class of adults when the groans that would have been heard in any high school classroom were replaced with simple discomfited fidgeting. He nearly laughed aloud at the marked difference. 

The lesson continued in that fashion. Morrell had a few books that she passed around and had them share to look over the different manual motions; she apologised for not being able to lend them out—most weren’t hers to give. Quite a few of them demonstrated passable alphabet familiarity already, Derek included. She stood at the front of the room and went through the different types of grammar rules—most of which went over the heads of the people in the room, Derek was certain. 

Another thing Derek was certain about: this was going to take a lot of practice, especially outside of the walls of this room. Different languages had never been his strongest attribute. 

After the lesson, Ms Morrell said they were free to go or they were welcome to chat with each other, or even ask questions of her. She pointed out that there were still refreshments available in the back of the room—something Derek had missed when trying to sneak in. 

Both he and the sheriff rose from their seats and headed toward the table with cookies, muffins and coffee, awkward dance for whom to go first included. In the end, Derek had motioned for Sheriff to walk ahead of him. 

“What a first lesson.” The sheriff let out a hefty sigh as he poured two cups of coffee. “I feel like I’m back in high school and I should be heading out to the bleachers to sneak in a smoke.” 

Derek wasn’t exactly sure at how to respond to that; he definitely knew not to point out any illicit behaviours. “I’m not sure if we shouldn’t still be trying to sign.” 

Sheriff laughed at that. “I know! This is gonna be a handful. My noggin’s not what it used to be, if it was any good back then.” 

“You were elected sheriff; I think you can handle it more than most people.” 

“Speaking of most people, fancy seeing you here.” 

Derek’s hand froze momentarily as he reached for a bran muffin before overcompensating and rushing to grab it. He tried to stamp out the scarlet flush of mortification rising in his neck and cheeks. 

“Uh,” Derek started, and then cleared his throat. “Some of my AP classes are giving extra credit.” 

Mr Stilinski nodded as he took a sip of the coffee; he looked surprised, and without a grimace present, Derek assumed it was at a better-than-expected taste. “Marin—I mean, Ms Morrell mentioned that at the very beginning.” 

Derek made a similar face, though not in reaction to the taste of brewed coffee grounds. It seemed as though his fib had turned into the truth. Convenient, indeed.

He cleared his throat again, not sure what was daring him to ask this question. “Is, uh—well, is Stiles learning on his own, then?” He glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop. He didn’t know why he didn’t want anybody to hear his query, but that didn’t change the fact that he didn’t. 

Sheriff’s hand came up again to rub at the back of his neck. Stiles did the same thing, Derek had noticed during lacrosse practices, lunch periods, and in passing him in the halls. Derek hadn’t ever been able to determine exactly why Stiles did it—that would have required loitering awkwardly nearby to hear conversations; something that Derek had always tried his hardest not to do—but in his interactions with Stiles’ father, he would hazard a guess toward uncertainty or social discomfort. 

The sheriff looked at him with something unrecognisable in his eyes, shuttering his entire face, before he seemed to get it under control again. “Actually, Stiles already knows sign language. He and his mother learned it, before—when he was younger.” 

Before she had passed away, he was going to say, Derek knew. It brought up a multitude of other questions he really wanted to ask, but the officer’s body language told him it wouldn’t be a good idea. 

“Sheriff, I should probably be heading home. See you tomorrow morning at the station?” Derek asked as he threw his muffin wrapper in the bin next to the table. 

“See you then, son.” 

******************

“Would you mind explaining what that was all about, Derek?” Talia clicked on the lamp on the end table near the couch as he hung up his coat and keys. 

“Jesus, Ma!” The keys clattered to the floor as he dropped them in fright. “Could you warn a guy?” 

“I figured the light turning on would be warning enough.” Talia rose from her seated position, wrapped in a robe, and approached her son. “Now, answer my question. You rushed out of here like…like _something_ was on fire. And it can’t be just about some extra credit point. Your grades are perfect.” 

“Yeah, Ma. It can just be about some extra credit point. That’s all it is.” Derek placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. “And my grades right now are stable, but it can’t ever hurt to have some extra cushion, right?” 

Talia shrugged out of Derek’s grasp with a smile. “No, I guess not. But it seemed like you had just heard about this from Laura at dinner—I did the dishes, by the way. Couldn’t stand to have them just setting around.” 

Derek covered his grimace at lying to his mother by kissing her on the cheek. “Thank you, Mom. I’ll do them the next two dinners we have to make it up to you.” 

Talia laughed and pushed him away. “Now I know something is up. A seventeen-year-old boy doesn’t kiss his mother on the cheek and he definitely doesn’t volunteer for more housework.” 

She made her way to the master suite on the first floor, and Derek hoped that she was only making a joke.   
He picked up the keys he had dropped and jogged up the stairs to his own room. Flicking on the light, he shouted before clasping a hand over his mouth. 

“Christ, Laura!” He brought his hand down angrily. “Have you been in here the whole night?” 

“Yes,” Laura gasped and raised an arm to her forehead from where she lay on his bed. “I couldn’t stand it without my younger brother.” She jumped up from the bed and punched him lightly on the arm. “No, dumbass, I ran in here when I heard your ostentatious car come up the drive.” 

“Yeah, well, what do you want?” He slung his shoes off into a corner of his room. 

“Well, how’d it go? Was he there?” Laura plopped herself back down onto his bed, on her stomach and held her head in her hands, like this was some gossip circle at a girls’ sleepover. 

“How’d what go? It was a class, like any other. And was who there?” Derek wouldn’t admit it, but he knew exactly whom she was referencing. 

“Oh, please, Derek. You know who. The boy of your dreams. Your actual dreams, from what I can hear through these thin—Yuck!” 

Derek had thrown a sock at her and it had landed right on her face. “Don’t talk about things that don’t concern you and you won’t become a sock-face again.” 

He sighed as he sat down on his fabric desk chair. “But no, he wasn’t there. Apparently he learned it as a child.” 

Laura frowned. “Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?” 

“No, Laura, I try not to think too much about it,” he said sullenly. _It’s not like he’s ever thought about me_ , he kept to himself. “Now would you leave? I’m going to change and then occupy that bed you’re currently hogging. It’s been a very long Monday.” 

“All right, fine, little bro. But don’t think this conversation is over.” Laura left the room making a stupid kissy face at him. 

_I look forward to it_. The sarcasm in his head was unmistakable. 

******************

The lessons over the next week and half were definitely a lot to take in. On top of the seminar, Derek had volunteer shifts at the station—he had to work with Shondra to rearrange some of his shifts; he had been worried that she would get frustrated or annoyed, but she had been more than accommodating—and biweekly lacrosse off-season training as one of the captains. 

It had startled him when he saw Scott McCall handing out the gear in the locker room instead of Stiles. He had thought about bringing that up with McCall but had quickly changed his mind. He had funnelled his frustration into aggression on the field, and his fellow teammates had quickly learned to not approach him with anything that wasn’t about the game. 

He didn’t know why he had been so foolish as to think Stiles would be there: the boy had just been released from the hospital; much less had the capability of playing the game safely. 

This week, Morrell had them trying at full conversations with partners. Unfortunate circumstances—Noah and Elijah had wanted to play basketball with him, and he had lost track of the time—had caused him to be late, and the only open spot was—again—by the sheriff. People always seemed to enjoy conversing with him, but apparently they also bought into the stigma of associating too closely with law enforcement—though it didn’t help that he was almost always in uniform. Out of the seven classes they had had together, Mr Stilinski had been in civilian clothes twice. 

Ms Morrell walked around the room correcting motions, hands and fingers. Derek could tell by the set of her mouth that she was disappointed in their progress. This, of course, wasn’t a graded class, but she had requested they put effort into learning outside—that “ASL is not something that can be learned and mastered in such a short time. It will take tremendous interest and endeavouring on your part to take something away from this class.” 

Derek had thrown himself into the YouTube channel and other websites to try and learn the massive vocabulary that existed. He had tried to stick to just vernacular that was familiar to him, though really he wanted to know it all. He had wondered several times how much Stiles knew, of what Stiles felt was familiar. 

Cora and Laura had walked in on him practicing different kitchen- and cooking-related signs when it had been his turn to cook one evening. Fortunately, they had stifled their laughter quickly—though they had been quick to assure him they weren’t laughing at his attempts to learn, but rather his outrageous exaggerated motions in order to get the motions right—and he hadn’t been forced to throw wooden and slotted spoons at them. 

So there he was practicing—rather dismally—conversations with Sheriff Stilinski in the brightly lit language arts classroom. Motivational posters were scattered around the walls, informing him that to succeed one must try and other such drivel one could see in any school. 

There was a knock at the door. Morrell went to answer it, Derek noticed vaguely out of the corner of his eye as he tried to pay attention to what the sheriff was trying to sign. Apparently, the older man wasn’t doing much better than he was. 

Derek glanced back over at the door and his elbow fell off the side of the desk where he had been leaning it. Stiles Stilinski was walking into the room, holding a brown paper bag clenched in one hand. He was walking straight toward—his father. He didn’t seem to see Derek sitting there, and for once, Derek hoped that would remain true. 

Stiles signed something at his father. Derek thought he caught the motion for lunch—one he had practiced during his cooking lesson, and it would explain the presence of the sack—and several others that went over his head. 

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” his father signed and mouthed back. Stiles looked surprised before he schooled his expression into a slight frown again. He thrust the bag forward toward his dad in a gesture that seemed to say, “Well, here! Take it.” 

After Sheriff took the lunch, Stiles turned on his heel and walked toward the door without looking back. Ms Morrell, interestingly enough, stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Derek couldn’t stop watching; he knew he was staring. He hoped that it wasn’t obvious—though a quick glance at Stiles’ father proved him wrong. 

But Stiles looked much better than during his stint in the hospital. There was colour in his skin again and his eyes were filled with something different than the pain and sorrow Derek had glimpsed in that fleeting encounter, if it could be called such. 

The two of them signed quite rapidly at each other. Stiles shook his head vehemently at something that appeared to be a request from Morrell. Morrell didn’t say anything else, apparently content to leave it at a simple suggestion, but then Stiles looked over at his father again. Then he scanned the room. 

Derek immediately tried to shrink himself down in his seat before—Stiles’ gaze fell on him. Several emotions flitted across Stiles’ face before Derek had the time to catalogue them all. It finally settled on what seemed to be grim determination—his lips were set in a thin line as he nodded once at Morrell. 

A few moments later, Morrell had set up two stools from somewhere in the front of the room for Stiles and her to sit upon. They were slightly higher than the desks so that the people in the back could also see. It quickly became clear that this was to be a demonstration of some sort. 

“ _Since some of you are having difficulties with conversations, I thought a demonstration would be helpful_ ,” Morrell signed and spoke. The signs were made slowly for the benefit of the class. 

She turned slightly and looked expectantly at Stiles. He shifted a little, holding tightly to the circle of wood that made the seat of the stool. He let go and signed slowly, appearing to take his cue from Ms Morrell. 

Ms Morrell translated for them: “ _What do you want to talk about?_ ” 

“ _Anything. Try to keep it as simple as possible, please._ ” 

“ _I like the weather. The crisp air is very refreshing. Do you think it will snow this winter?_ ” 

“ _I’m not sure. Do you like the snow?_ ” 

“ _I did as a child._ ”

The conversation flowed from topic to topic, keeping it light and simple, just like Morrell had requested. It was amazing to see the two of them sign so fluidly. If anyone had faltered, it had been Ms Morrell. She sometimes had struggled to keep up with Stiles when his signs had gotten away from him and he had accidentally sped up. 

He noticed that the awkwardness of being up in front of a bunch of strangers to demonstrate something eventually melted away from Stiles. His shoulders relaxed, his motions became more fluid, and he even smiled slightly once or twice during their conversation. He was basically completely ignoring the class members and focusing on Ms Morrell. Derek smiled, too.

Derek had a hard time focusing on what Stiles was actually signing instead of just watching his hands. Those long fingers formed the different signs and the lean arms made the motions and it had been completely distracting. Derek tried to keep from thinking what else those hands could do, and prayed to any listening gods that he wasn’t currently flushing. 

Derek blinked rapidly when it seemed that the conversation was over. Ms Morrell was getting up and so was Stiles. Most of the adults were leaving the room; the three other students had already left. Stiles headed over to his father and gave him a hug. 

Derek quickly gathered up his belongings in his arms and cringed when he tripped over the one of the desk’s leg and caused it to screech—something he was sure could have been heard around the world. Then he grimaced at his poor choice of words. 

He looked up and gulped. Both Stilinski men were staring at him, intimidating in quite different ways. The sheriff just looked expectant, but Stiles’ face was blank, completely devoid of emotion. 

Derek pointlessly cleared his throat. This wasn’t going to be an oral conversation, though he briefly wondered if he should speak for the sheriff’s sake. 

“ _Your signs are very good._ ” 

Immediately pain flickered over Stiles’ face before he shuttered his expression again. Derek swore he could see tears that were blinked back before Stiles once again turned on his heel and left the room. 

Sheriff followed with a quick look back at Derek, who noted the lack of anger on the man’s face. 

Derek wondered if it was possible to die of mortification and guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone have any theories/ideas that they'd like to share? Be sure to hit me up at [codarra](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com) and let me know! I'd be absolutely delighted to hear them! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one wherein Stiles finally talks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super sorry for this being so late. I blame mainly graduate school. But also I thought I was completely unhappy with this chapter; when I read it again, though, it was like it was completely different than what I felt I had written. 
> 
> It's also lengthy, but not as much as last chapter. I really hope you enjoy. 
> 
> A big shout out to [lunawho47](http://www.lunawho47.tumblr.com) for getting this back to me much more quickly than I had anticipated. And for giving me the vote of confidence I needed to actually publish this chapter. Major kudos to her. All of you need to go follow her. 
> 
> A special thanks to [leviathanlost](http://www.leviathanlost.tumblr.com) for taking an early look at this and helping me tweak where needed. 
> 
> And as always, thank you to [packdontendwithblood](http://www.packdontendwithblood.tumblr.com) for always being there for me. 
> 
> On with the show!

Stiles was just glad that he didn’t face plant in front of so many people—his teachers, some of his peers, and even some of his neighbours. Turning that quickly had been a mistake, he belatedly realised. Fortunately, it was not one that had been immediately punished, aside from a bad case of vertigo. 

Stiles walked as quickly down the hall has he felt was safe—to avoid any further unfortunate incidents. He felt someone running down the hall behind him, and the gait reminded him of his father’s, so he turned to face the pursuer. 

“Son, why did you just run out of that room?” 

Stiles noticed, after reading his dad’s lips, that he had dropped all pretense of using signs. Something inside Stiles shifted, but he tried to keep any of it showing on his face. He deigned not to answer his dad, and he just kept his face in a neutral expression. 

His father gave a hefty sigh by the looks of it and placed a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, who deftly shrugged out of it. Something flickered across the sheriff’s face—possibly anger or frustration—as he retracted his arm. 

“I know you can understand me, Stiles.” 

Stiles tried to keep his gaze from watching his dad’s mouth, but fighting something that had been second nature since he was a small child was incredibly difficult; and by the smug smile on his father’s face, he had been unsuccessful. 

“Fine. It’s fine. Don’t talk to me. At least tell me that you didn’t drive here.” 

Stiles let out a deep breath through his nose and reluctantly shook his head. He hadn’t even been able to find where his dad had hidden the keys to Roscoe. Not that he had been actively looking; he didn’t have anywhere to drive to, so why worry about driving at all? But that didn’t mean that Stiles didn’t resent the sheriff for taking them in the first place. 

_There’s being protective, and then there’s being overprotective_ , Stiles thought. 

“Well, at least let me drive you home. It’s dark outside. I’ll just be late to my shift.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes and shook his head again, turning on his heel—more slowly this time—and began walking away. He concentrated to try and feel if his dad was following him again but he didn’t sense anything. As he rounded the corner to the corridor that would lead him to the nearest exit, he chanced a look down the hall: his father was walking back toward the seminar room, not looking back. 

Stiles shivered when the chill winter air hit him in the face, like a hand had slapped him that was covered in ice. Now he was desperately wishing he hadn’t scorned that scarf that hung off his closet door handle earlier that evening. 

_And maybe buying some gloves wouldn’t be such a bad idea._

The wind rustled the trees that were lit by lamps and were scattered about in different plots around the courtyard of the school, and a few straggling leaves fell toward the sidewalk in front of Stiles. Completely brown, devoid of the pigmentation that marked them as living, breathing things, they swirled slightly before finally settling on the concrete that was strewn with cracks formed from either the earth shifting, frozen precipitation or—in some cases—roots of trees, like the one Stiles had just stepped over. 

Stiles smiled as he decided to do what he had loved doing since before he could talk—ever since he had learned to walk. He moved toward the biggest dead leaf that was nearest to him and jumped on it, and he waited…   
Stiles’ smile immediately turned into a frown. He hadn’t even thought before… Before deciding to try something else to be added to the growing list of things never to be experienced again. 

_Just another thing I didn’t think I’d miss before realising it was already gone._

He kicked his foot, scattered the bits of leaf he had crushed—he refused to use the word crunch—and continued walking down the sidewalk. The lights became fewer as he traversed down the road, until there was maybe one per block, if said lights were even functional. Stiles remembered his dad complaining a couple months ago that the city’s maintenance department had little funds to work with and that they were asking for higher taxes or something to help raise money. 

Stiles wasn’t afraid of the dark—not necessarily—but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He almost wished that he had taken his dad up on that ride home, but he had his stubborn pants on, as his mother would have said. 

A small, sad smile graced his face as he thought about her. He could remember listening to the crickets that he was sure would be chirping loudly right now, listening to them with her on their back porch before his bedtime. She would always say that they were telling the moon it was safe to come out; that the angry, hot sun was gone for the day. The moon keeps the earth cool, from making it get hotter and hotter, she would say with a smile that let him know it was just a story—even if he always had liked her stories. 

Stiles blinked and was surprised to notice that a few tears had escaped down his cheeks. He wiped them away on his sleeve and sniffed before looking around. He realized that he had missed the street he wanted to turn down and had walked too far. He couldn’t see any street signs—all of the lights around that part of town were out—but he saw a small pub that had glowing neon signs advertising different types of alcohol. 

He had really walked well past where he wanted to go. Lost in his thoughts again, as Harris always said, and would usually then send him out to the hall or sometimes even to the principal’s office. Mr. Tyler wouldn’t ever really do anything about it except sigh long-sufferingly and complain about abuse of power under his breath—something Stiles had been sure hadn’t been meant for him to hear. 

Stiles was about to turn around when he saw two guys standing outside the bar, and they had just noticed him, too. Fear spiked in him— _for no reason,_ he thought—as he saw them speak to each other—they were way too far away and it was too dark for him to be able to make out what they were saying exactly; but their pointing seemed to make it clear as day. 

Stiles immediately turned around and began walking the way he had come, probably more quickly than he should, and tried to put the guys out of his mind. They wouldn’t follow him; there was no reason for them to do. But his father’s words and training always came back to him in moments like this—when his blood pressure was up and his pulse was racing. Their faces and identifiable features were burned in his mind, probably never to be forgotten. At least from what he had seen, anyway. Their estimated heights and weights were filed away with their clothing and anything else his mind had thought might be pertinent. 

He wasn’t sure exactly how far away he was from the street he needed, but it was at least several blocks. Stiles didn’t look behind him; he was afraid it would make him start running, and that would probably not be a very good idea with his new condition. Walking quickly might even be a bad idea, but he’d have to take that chance. There was no way he could slow down now. 

_Is it just me or is it getting darker?_

Suddenly a hand grabbed his shoulder and whirled him around. The two guys were there, swaying slightly on their feet. Stiles put them at around 25 years of age as he swallowed down the shout that had threatened to crawl out of his throat. 

“ _What do you want?_ ” Stiles signed at the guys. 

One of them laughed, the taller one with sandy blond hair covered in a baseball cap with its bill facing the back of his head. Stiles tried not to recoil from the stench of alcohol on his breath, though he couldn’t cover a flinch. 

_Not even nine at night and already drunk._

“So you are the sheriff’s kid,” the other one slurred out—or something close enough that Stiles read. He caught the words _sheriff_ and _kid_. 

“Do you know what your fuckin’ dad did to us?” 

Stiles again only caught a few words but his mind easily filled in the rest. He decided not to answer in any way—the two guys were going to do whatever they wanted anyway. There would probably be a bruise blooming where the one guy’s fingers had dug into his shoulder; he had always bruised easily with his pale skin. 

The other guy, dark brown hair, long—below his chin—and very lank, shoved at Stiles’ chest and he stumbled a few steps backward. He should have taken this as his cue to turn around and try to get away from these idiots, but the guy’s lips were moving and Stiles was known for his curiosity, wasn’t he? 

“Your bitch of a dad jailed us for drinking on the preserve. Now we have records! I can’t get a job anywhere except at a fuckin’ gas station.” 

The blond guy decided to try the shoving thing but Stiles stepped back before he could and turned as quickly as he dared to start walking away. A glance behind told him that they decided to follow him, though more slowly. Their faces were distorted in anger—if not pure rage. He’d bet some amount of money that they were shouting things now, probably filled with obscenities. Stiles didn’t focus on their mouths as he didn’t really care what they were actually saying; he just wanted them to disappear. Or for himself to disappear. 

Stiles directed his attention back to the road and willed himself to walk more quickly. He didn’t quite think he could run—he didn’t want to risk falling; who knows what they’d do if they saw him fall. He didn’t even want to think about that potentiality, so he just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as quickly as possible. 

The guys caught up to him and shoved at his shoulders, one on either side. He presumed it was because he wasn’t paying them any attention, and that’s what they were craving. Another shove almost sent him sprawling to the ground, but he was able to retain his balance. 

Stiles stopped walking and turned to face his aggressors. “ _Leave me alone!_ he signed at them before turning around to walk again. 

Stiles was dazed as his face smashed into the cold, rough concrete of the sidewalk, palms scored as they dragged when he tried to catch himself. 

Moments passed before Stiles raised his head. Everything was out of focus, fuzzy around the edges. His forehead was warm, a burning warmth. He got up to his knees and brought a hand up to his face, hissing in pain. His palms were ruined masses of gravelly debris and blood. He could only assume that his forehead was as well, by the feel of it.   
Stiles licked his lips and tasted blood—a lot of blood. Too much for just a cracked lip. He looked down and saw that his jeans were spotted with drops of the red humor. He raised his hand to his face again and realised that his nose was bleeding, rather profusely. 

_I haven’t had one of those in a while._ His thoughts were still muddled; his head seemed like it was floating in the clouds that concealed the moon, even though the crickets were telling her it was okay to come out now.   
Stiles blinked. He looked around him and saw that he was alone. The guys were gone. Probably scared off by what they had done. At least, he assumed it was what they had done. He didn’t remember tripping. 

He got to his feet slowly, as to not upset his equilibrium again. He pressed his sleeve to his nose to catch most of the blood—a more-than-lost cause because his shirtfront and jacket were covered in it. Stiles was sure his face looked super appealing right about then. He also tilted his head forward and used his free hand to pinch his nose to try and staunch the bleeding as he plodded forward. 

The next thing Stiles knew his father was shaking him awake. The sheriff was frantically shouting something, pale as the sheets that Stiles had slept on in the hospital. Stiles squeezed his hands reflexively and felt something wet and marginally damp. He looked over and found a washcloth clenched in his fist. 

He looked back at his father and frowned. He was back in his bedroom, though he was ambiguous as to the steps taken to get there. The light was on overhead and the lights blinking at him from his clock told him it was early morning. Very early morning. His dad’s shift must be over and he had returned home. 

Stiles tried to focus, failed, blinked a few times and tried again. The colour had returned to his father’s face and was steadily working more toward the red end of the spectrum. Stiles blinked some more and concentrated on his dad’s lips. They were working furiously, most likely he was still yelling—though it appeared to be for a completely different reason than before. 

“What the hell happened, Stiles?” Stiles read. 

Stiles also noticed that his father again wasn’t attempting any sign language. He didn’t know why he had expected anything else. Going to the seminar was probably a ploy, an action to be seen by the public—the sheriff was an elected position, after all. 

Stiles felt a little shame at his thoughts, but at the same time, he felt they were justified. He looked away from his dad, squeezed the washrag and felt a few drops of water leak from the cloth. 

The sheriff grabbed his son’s chin and forcibly turned his head to face the older man. He repeated his question, though this time his features were softer, fewer hard lines defined in anger. 

Stiles jerked his head out of his dad’s hand and slowly sat up. His head was killing him, pounding in rhythm with his pulse, probably from the fall. He pushed his dad to the side and went over to his dresser mirror and nearly gasped at what he saw. 

His face was a mess. Stiles must have stopped the bleeding before passing out—otherwise he likely would have choked to death on his own blood—but not before it made him look like a serial killer. It was smeared all over his mouth and chin, from where he had been plugging his nose with his jacket sleeve, which was still on him and now ruined. There’d be no way he would get that blood out. 

Stiles turned back to his dad and signed slowly, “ _I tripped. Over a rock. Normal for me._ ” 

The sheriff didn’t seem to understand. Stiles sighed and pantomimed the actions, fortunately not falling for a second time. This seemed to frustrate his father who just told him to get himself cleaned up and back to bed before he turned away and presumably went to his own room. The floor shook slightly in evidence of a slammed door, so Stiles guessed he was right. 

_Just another day where I’m not the son he wants…_

 

*****************

 

Stiles’ phone buzzed in his pocket right as he was shooting an enemy through his brain. He turned the console off—it wasn’t quite as satisfactory to blow things up when you couldn’t hear the explosions. 

He pulled his phone out and saw that it was a notification from the specialised doorbell that he had purchased online earlier that week. He tapped a button that told the doorbell to take a snap photo and send it back to him. 

It suddenly became a struggle to get out of his gamer chair quickly enough. He ended up having to roll off it onto the floor and grab his comforter as leverage. 

_What in the world is Derek Hale doing at my house?_

Stiles stood in front of his mirror and tried to flatten his hair into something presentable. He hadn’t done anything with it—what was the point? The scratches on his forehead were healing nicely; now they were just pink lines that he tried to push his hair over to hide. His bottom lip was still slightly swollen—it _had_ been split upon his face becoming intimate with the concrete last week. There wasn’t anything he could do about that so he took a deep breath. 

Stiles’ phone buzzed again. Apparently Derek was getting a little impatient. 

He sped down the stairs as quickly as he could; he nearly stumbled into the door as he reached for the handle. Stiles took another breath and opened the door. 

Surprise stained Derek’s face and his mouth formed an O-shape—something that Stiles definitely didn’t think about. 

“I…thought your father would be here.” Derek mouthed the words slowly and signed the words for “father” and “here” using his free hand. His other was clutching a larger folder like a lifeline. 

Stiles just pointed to the driveway and its lack of a cruiser. Realisation dawned on Derek’s face. He mouthed another “Oh.” Stiles swallowed a laugh and gestured for Derek to come inside. 

Stiles made the sign for grocery store, which was a compound of the signs for food and store. Derek seemed to understand as they sat down on the sofa in the living room. At least, he nodded. 

“ _Why did you need my dad?_ ” 

Derek held up the papers in their folder, and then he put it down in order to make the two-handed sign for “signature.” Stiles was impressed. He wasn’t certain if Morrell would be going over such potentially obscure vocabulary or if it was part of a section on the office or whatever, but Derek’s signing had improved. Or, his confidence in them had increased, which equates to the same thing. He was nowhere near perfect, but a marked increase in ability had occurred. 

“ _Your signing has improved._ ” 

Derek surprised Stiles by blushing furiously and looking away. “Thanks. I’m still struggling with full sentences and conversations, though.” These weren’t signed, for obvious reasons; but Derek had turned back to face Stiles, the remnants of his blush still evident on his cheeks. 

Stiles tried really hard to not think about how much other parts of his body might flush. He cleared his throat and got up off the sofa and held up one finger before dashing up the stairs to his room to retrieve something. 

When he came back, Stiles situated himself so he was sitting cross-legged on the couch, facing Derek, and handed him a small tablet, open to a messaging app. 

_This is more for my benefit_ , it read. _Sometimes I don’t feel like signing. So I figure we could communicate like this._

Stiles held up his phone when Derek had finished reading and shook it a little, grinning widely. He was pretty excited. He hadn’t really conversed with anyone since Miss Morrell and he had that demonstrative conversation. 

Even if this was Derek freakin’ Hale. 

He tapped out a quick message to send to the tablet. _Don’t worry about responding on here. I’m pretty good at reading lips. So just talk normally, I guess._

“How did you get good at that? I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.” 

A little bit of the flush crept back up Derek’s neck. Stiles tried and failed to keep from smiling as he responded. _I’m the son of the sheriff. I think curiosity comes with the territory, and it just escalated from there._

Derek actually laughed and Stiles felt incredibly, and rather surprisingly, sad that he wouldn’t ever hear it. It must be a good laugh because Derek’s entire face lit up with it—must be something worth hearing. 

“I guess that explains it, then. Look, I’m sorry if what I said last week—”

Stiles waved a hand to cut him off and typed out, _Don’t worry about it, dude. It’s cool. I’m sorry for acting like a dick._

A stricken look passed across Derek’s face before it was overcome by something else as he read Stiles’ message. He didn’t immediately respond so Stiles picked up the remote after sending, _So what do you like on pre-primetime TV?_

Stiles had reset the programming on this TV to power on with closed captioning to show when available, but he quickly went to turn this feature off—he knew it could be distracting to have subtitles. 

Derek placed his hand over the remote. His hand was mostly on the remote, but his fingertips were brushing Stiles’ hand—and he was definitely not cliché enough to say he could still feel them when Derek removed his hand. Shocked, Stiles looked up at Derek. 

“No, it’s okay. You can keep them on.” 

“ _Sports?_ ”

Derek laughed again and shrugged as he turned back toward the television. He fell into what Stiles presumed to be a comfortable silence—if it wasn’t too blasé to say that anymore. Stiles didn’t change the channel because this television was almost always on one of the seemingly thousands of the ones for ESPN. He wasn’t even sure what team or even what sport was on screen. He was just watching Derek. 

Derek Hale. In his house. Working for his father. Sitting on his couch. Holding his tablet to talk to him. Stiles Stilinski. The now-deaf, always-weird kid. And here Derek Hale was, just sat there with a small smile on his face, watching sports on television. With Stiles. 

_I’m gonna wake up any minute now, right? I have to. The last person to hang out with me was Scott, and that was months ago._ Stiles chewed on his bottom lip and failed to contain a little whimper that escaped when he hit the split. 

Derek looked at him sharply, or, more specifically, at his lips. His brow furrowed and his eyes flitted up to Stiles’ forehead, where he was certain that the pink scratches were easily discernible against his pale skin. 

“What happened?” Derek’s brow was furrowed still, and Stiles could easily imagine his voice being laced with concern—even though it was highly more likely that it was simply a casual question. 

Stiles typed out a message on his phone. _It was just me being my clumsy self. I’m sure you’ve seen me fall over my shoelaces in the cafeteria. One time I even brought a lunch lady down with me._

That didn’t get the reaction that Stiles had hoped. Instead Derek just read the message and levelled Stiles with a look that he read as a repeat of his question, in a less-than-amused way. 

_I tripped over a rock,_ Stiles sent to the tablet in Derek’s hands. _Can we really not talk about it? I was dumb and not watching where I was going._

Was it strange that he felt worse lying to Derek, a guy he didn’t really know, who had technically been his team captain, than for lying to his own father? Stiles wasn’t exactly sure what to make of that. 

“Yeah, sure. I just…” Derek shook his head and fidgeted on the couch a little before continuing. “So are you coming back to school Monday?” 

_Yeah. It’s definitely going to be weird… I’m not sure what to think about it. They gave me a shit ton of work to catch up, which was cake, obviously. On top of that I had to test into all the AP classes that I’m switching to for next semester._

Derek’s eyes grew wider and wider as he read. Stiles thought Derek cleared his throat before he spoke. “You’re…switching to AP classes? Which?” 

Stiles noticed there was an unasked question lingering in his eyes—most likely the “how?” Stiles didn’t feel like explaining to him about Scott so he just listed: _Chemistry. Biology. English. Physics. French. World history. Calculus. And maybe psychology, but I’m not sure if I can fit it in as individual study yet._

Derek read the message and then looked up at Stiles and blinked several times. “Are you doing them all as individual study? With a tutor or something?” 

_No, the school couldn’t afford a specialised tutor. So I will be attending the classes with the other students. The principal and Morrell were impressed enough by my ability to follow their conversation—they actually had me write out the gist of what they were saying—to deem it okay for me to join you guys. The teachers have all been great; well, most of them. They’re all gonna give me their notes for the week every, week._

“That’s incredible. So you’re basically a genius, is what you’re telling me.”

It was Stiles’ turn to blush furiously and, of course, give a shit-eating grin. He shrugged in lieu of typing out a response that would either seem too modest or too immodest. 

Derek shook his head, seemingly in disbelief. “That’s incredible. I can’t imagine the tests you had to take. And after finishing last semester’s work. You did this in two weeks? Over Christmas?”

Stiles’ smile fell a little at the mention of Christmas. His dad had been “called in” to work, as he had every year since Stiles was thirteen. Stiles had foolishly thought this year would be different; he didn’t know why he had gotten his hopes up. 

_Yeah. I finished right before Christmas, actually._

“Speaking of the holidays, were you invited to Jackson’s New Year’s party?” 

Stiles barked out a laugh and shook his head in the negative. _Probably because I’m not his friend. Or their friends. And because I’m deaf now, so that might be a buzz kill._

“I didn’t even…think; I’m so sorry.” When Stiles motioned for him to not worry about it, he continued. “I know how to put my foot in my mouth. You’re not their friends, but you—.” 

Stiles narrowed his eyes when Derek cut himself off, but he didn’t pursue it. It wasn’t his place to pry. 

Derek turned suddenly to look at the front door. It opened to reveal the sheriff laden with paper bags full of groceries. They hadn’t gone shopping for a while so Stiles expected there to be many more left in the cruiser. His dad greeted Derek, raised an eyebrow at Stiles that promised some sort of conversation for later, and continued into the kitchen, probably assuming that Stiles could get the rest. 

Stiles jumped up to go retrieve a few and was surprised to see that Derek was following him. He pointed back inside, but Derek shook his head again. 

“It’s the least I can do for taking up so much of your afternoon.” Derek grinned at him, and Stiles couldn’t help but return it. It hadn’t been that much time and Stiles had definitely enjoyed it, though he couldn’t quite point out how he had enjoyed it yet. 

_Maybe it’s time for— _Stiles thought before Derek touched a hand to his shoulder—the bruised one, no less, though Stiles managed to contain his flinch—to catch his attention.__

__“Do you think… Do you think I could get your number?” Derek blushed again and took a sudden step back, making a swiping motion with his hand. “You know, in case I have any questions about signing?”_ _

__Stiles felt something inside him shift again, a swooping low in his abdomen. He made a give-me motion with the hand that wasn’t holding a grocery bag. Derek took it for its true meaning and reached for his phone in his jacket pocket and handed it to Stiles. He quickly navigated to the contacts app and added an entry for himself and included his phone number and even threw in his Skype address—why not?_ _

__Derek’s smile widened, flashed brilliantly at Stiles as he handed the phone back to him. He muttered a thanks before turning back to grab quite a few bags and carry them back inside. Stiles stood there staring after him._ _

___Yeah, it’s definitely time to pay a visit to Mom._ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I welcome comments on here or on my [tumblr](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com), where you can follow, shoot an ask or just peruse to your liking! 
> 
> For the next Stiles chapter, I have something special planned you guys, with the help of my [friend](http://www.musicsetsmysoulalight.tumblr.com), so be sure to subscribe and stay tuned! 
> 
> ~~Why do I feel like I'm on YouTube now?~~


	6. Observing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Derek notices a pattern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this has taken so long! It became exam central over the past couple weeks. Three in a seven day period. But one class is completely finished, so I should be able to resume normal updates. 
> 
> And to reward you for your endurance of a long hiatus, this chapter is my longest yet! And there's plenty of Stiles/Derek interaction! 
> 
> This remains un-beta'd as of yet; my usual go-to is at a concert tonight, and I became impatient. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Derek was a born observer. He had a knack for ferreting out patterns; it had always come easily to him. He was sure that this is what drove him to want to work in law enforcement. To become a detective; to solve the puzzles that were inherent in crimes. 

If he ever looked back on the events that were to occur that week, he would say that the pattern began with the word “Stilinski.” 

Derek had entered the locker room, with a grin on his face, and he hadn’t even bothered to hide or minimise it. Sure, it garnered him a few strange looks—it was a Monday morning after all (6 in the morning, in fact), what was there to be chipper about? 

But that had melted away when Derek had walked into the janitorial closet the team had long ago commandeered as equipment storage, and he had seen McCall there, lacing up some lacrosse sticks. 

Derek had asked the mop-headed boy where Stiles was and the guy had told him he wasn’t sure. But he had seen Stiles when he had first gotten there talking to Coach in his office. Stiles had handed Finstock a piece of paper, McCall said, and the coach had clapped his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, nodding a few times before Stiles had finally left. 

Derek could have kicked himself for being an idiot. He should have expected that Stiles would quit the team—of course he would have—but he had still felt more than a little disappointment settle in his stomach. 

Had Derek looked back, he would have noticed something odd about the whole conversation. Derek had used Stiles’ first name several times while he spoke with McCall. Yet Scott had switched to using the surname. 

Had Derek looked back, he would have said that was the beginning of the pattern. 

 

***********

 

Derek had been so disheartened by the abrupt lack of Stiles—he may have let it out on his teammates; if anyone asked, it was just Monday morning irritation—that he approached his world history classroom with dread.

_Another lovely way to start a week—with a dry lecture about dead people who nobody cares about anymore…_ Derek thought wryly as he wrenched open the door. 

The breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding left his lungs in a loud exhalation. Peripherally, Derek noticed some of the scattering of students who had arrived early look up at the noise, but he didn’t care. Not in the least. 

Stiles sat there, in the front row. He had a small whiteboard out, along with the tablet Derek had used and a wireless keyboard. 

_Interesting set up._

But that wasn’t Derek’s primary focus. He noticed that Stiles’ hair was unkempt, as though he had rolled out of bed to come to school. Not like it was during the mornings that Stiles had come to practice. At least during the second year; the first, Stiles’ hair was buzzed. He had grown it out impressively over the summer break. Not that Derek had noticed immediately—or had been pleased with the results. 

All members were responsible for attending practices, not just starters, and Stiles had always showed up with a smile on his face, chatting eagerly with his friends on the team—or chatting at them, maybe; most mornings the guys weren’t as responsive—and his hair was always styled messily. The practices had, of course, taken their toll on his hair, but he’d fix it in the locker room before returning to class—not that Derek had been staring or anything. He had just seen Stiles at the mirror with some goopy product on his way out, that was all. 

Derek could feel a blush coming on and he wasn’t even talking to the guy! He might talk to a doctor about that—maybe it’s a condition. 

But today it was just…messy. There was no other word for it. 

Derek filed it away as he took in the rest of the room. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there staring—he hoped it wasn’t that long—but the classroom had filled up significantly. Most the seats were taken now; the students were chatting with one another about their holiday break. Derek drowned it out. 

He saw that the seats around Stiles, who sat next to the window on the far side of the room, were still vacant. Another thing that he would later attribute as part of the pattern. Derek was in a dilemma. He could choose the seat next to him, try and engage him in conversation. Derek had practiced a lot over the weekend. That was basically all he had done; his mother, of course, had noticed and had wondered aloud many times, in Derek’s room, why he wouldn’t come down and visit with his family. 

Derek had made an appearance at the party that weekend, because otherwise the guys on the team would have given him hell—the hell that they had experienced this morning, running drills while nursing hangovers. The two normally didn’t mix well, though Derek had been ruthless in his captaincy that morning. 

He felt someone push past him. Strawberry blonde hair flounced over her shoulder as Lydia took the seat to Stiles’ immediate right and began chatting with one of her friends. Stiles didn’t react at all. He looked over at Lydia and then back at his tablet, on which he seemed to be playing some sort of game to pass the time. Stiles didn’t notice Derek, still standing awkwardly near the doorway.

Derek supposed that was one way to solve his problem, though he was a little irritated that the choice had been taken from him. So he walked over to that row and made his way to the seat behind him. 

He was slightly crestfallen when Stiles didn’t look up to receive the smile that Derek had prepared to give him. But that game did look rather interesting. Derek peered over his shoulder as he took his seat; it was some sort of first-person shooter. The sound was turned off, but he could see the blood spatter as Stiles deftly removed one of the—what looked like zombies—enemy’s heads. 

Derek must have been a little less than circumspect in his observation. Stiles turned around with his brow slightly furrowed, as though looking for the source of his inconvenient distractor. But the frown gave way to a small smile and a nod as he recognised Derek. 

Derek would never admit to the small—immense—flip in his stomach as he returned the smile; he just hoped his wasn’t too awkward, or big, or intense. Derek did notice, as Stiles turned back around, that the smile was different than the other ones he had seen Stiles give—in random, every day occurrences. Like when getting ready for practice. Or on the bench at a game. Or passing in the school’s many corridors. 

It wasn’t the shit-eating grin that he had on when he was alone with Scott—something that hadn’t seemed to happen very often after McCall made first string at the beginning of their second year. 

It wasn’t the forced smile he had seen on Stiles whenever McCall, Whittemore or anyone else on first string had made a good play or scored a goal. 

It wasn’t the smile he used when he sat at his table with his group of friends as they talked and laughed and joked their way through the lunch period. 

It was a different smile. A new smile. Small, but still very much Stiles. Derek tried incredibly hard not to think that it might be a special smile…

_No, Hale. Do not go there._

Mrs Rosenthal entered the classroom, and Stiles switched apps on his tablet. From what Derek could see over Stiles’ shoulder—very little, unfortunately—it looked like a word processing app, which would explain the presence of the keyboard. Apparently Stiles was going to use it to take notes. 

The history lecturer handed Stiles a rather large binder that was full of paper, and, when Stiles looked up, said in a whisper, “These are the plans for the week. I trust that you know these are for your eyes only.” And with that, she began her lesson. 

 

***********

 

Derek saw that Stiles was packing up his things and realised that the class was over. He hurriedly put away his notebook, which, for this lesson, was embarrassingly lacklustre in actual notes. Instead it was covered in lazy doodles, ink meandering across the page in swoops and swirls; they made some sort of organic design that Derek was surprised to find that he actually liked. 

After he zipped up his bag, Derek stood up and noticed that Stiles was already heading out the door. He grabbed his phone and pen and practically sprinted for the door, and he almost ran into several students who were passing in front of the door. He apologised as he pushed past them. 

Stiles was halfway down the hall, and then Derek was faced with the choice of trying to obviously catch up or follow sedately. Apparently his feet made the decision for him because suddenly he was walking as quickly as he could down the corridor without being conspicuous about it. Perhaps others would just think he was about to be late for a class? (Even though BHHS provided ten minutes for each break.) 

Stiles must notice something because he looked behind him. Derek immediately—and slightly unconsciously—swerved to the nearest locker and began fiddling with the lock dial. The locker wasn’t his, but he hoped that Stiles didn’t know that. He also hoped that Stiles couldn’t see the immense flush of pink that was tinging Derek’s neck and face. 

_What in the world am I doing?_

He forced himself to release the lock—something his fingers did not want to do—and continue walking down the corridor. Stiles was already gone, most likely already in the classroom that was just a few feet away. 

Derek entered the classroom—Harris’ AP chemistry—and saw that the entire front row of lab tables was empty. He frowned and scanned the rest of the room to find Stiles sitting toward the middle. The dark-haired boy was removing his tablet from its case and pulling out the keyboard. 

Derek took a deep breath, steeling himself, and walked directly toward Stiles’ table. All of the tables around him were empty, so Derek was sure that it was obvious what he was doing. 

He took a seat next to Stiles and began laying out his chemistry book—that they used only sparingly, but Harris said they had to lug around this 700 page monstrosity every time they had the class—and other things. Derek glanced over at Stiles and saw that he was looking at him with a raised, inquisitive eyebrow. 

“ _This is my normal table,_ ” Derek signed and said. 

Then Stiles did something that Derek wasn’t expecting. He nodded, gave him a small, sad smile that was vastly different from the one in the history classroom and began gathering his things. He stood up and pushed his chair in. 

Derek shot out a hand and grabbed Stiles’ forearm. Stiles froze and looked at him again. 

“No, I didn’t mean for you to leave. You can stay. If you want.” 

Stiles’ smile faded and came back as the same one he had given him in history. _I should be a little saner and not categorise his each and every smile…_

Stiles resumed getting his gear ready and Derek smiled to himself. Perhaps this would be a good class. 

Of course, that was when Harris decided to sweep into the room and scathingly tell the students to quiet down. Unlike Mrs Rosenthal, Harris didn’t hand Stiles a packet of notes, which Derek could only assume was bad news. 

Instead he said, “Looks like we have a newcomer in the class. Stiles Stilinski. Would you like to say a few words?” 

There were a few murmurs Derek heard scattered through the room. Derek frowned and noticed that Stiles was still getting things situated on the lab table in front of him, so he gently nudged Stiles’ arm with his elbow. 

Stiles looked at him and then up at the front of the room; he seemed a little surprised to find Harris standing there with a smug smile on his face. 

“Shall I repeat myself? Would you like to say a few words, Stiles? As part of your welcome to the wonderful world of advanced placement chemistry?” 

This time there were a few giggles and snickers around the laboratory classroom. Derek saw Lydia toward the middle of the room sitting with a small smile on her face as she used a file on her nails. 

Stiles just creased his brow and shook his head, apparently immune or unaware of the mutterings and chuckles around him. 

Harris clapped his hands together. “Well then, you may put those devices away. You know as well as I do that there are no electronic devices allowed out on this campus. Put them away before I confiscate them for the remainder of this school year.” 

Stiles’ nostrils flared, and he glowered at Harris for a few interminable moments—moments when Derek was sure Harris would prance over and take away his tablet—but finally he reached down to wrench up his backpack in order to replace them. He brought out instead a traditional notebook and pen. Derek noticed that his hands were trembling slightly. 

“All right. Let’s begin!” Harris turned to the board and began writing out equations. He kept his back turned to the class as he gave explanations to their use and how they fit in to the lecture. 

Derek looked up at Stiles’ face, which had the textbook expression of dismay painted across it. He was confused for a moment until he realised… Harris was keeping his back to the class with his head facing the opposite side of the room. And judging by the small smirk on the teacher’s face, he was doing it on purpose. 

Derek heard a ripping noise. Stiles tore out the page from his notebook, crumpled it up and tossed it into the sink in the middle of the lab table. His lips—which Derek tried to not think about too often—were moving rapidly as though he was muttering to himself. 

_God, has Harris always been a dick to Stiles?_ Derek thought angrily. This was going a little too far, in his opinion. But what could he do about it? 

Eventually the ninety-minute lecture was coming to a close; Derek understood chemistry, but he definitely didn’t enjoy it. In stark contrast to his several pages of sprawling notes, Stiles’ notebook had a rough comic in which it looked as though Mr Harris was being thoroughly devoured by a dragon after having been scorched. 

“Now to talk to you about this semester’s project. You’ll choose a topic related strongly to chemistry, of course, and you’ll have an oral presentation with applicable research. PowerPoint necessary, other visual aids encouraged.” Harris looked directly at Stiles as he continued, “And there will be no substitutions allowed.” 

Stiles gritted his teeth so hard, Derek heard it from his seat next to him. Why did Harris seem to have it out for him? 

The bell rang, and at the signal from the other students leaving, Stiles gathered his things without packing them away, and he left through the door in the back of the room. Derek took another deep breath—he realised he had done that a lot in recent memory—and quickly followed. 

Derek saw Stiles turn the corner down the hall, presumably heading for his locker—he apparently could very walk quickly when he wanted to—that Derek knew was in that direction. From simple observation, of course. 

When Derek turned the corner, he saw Stiles at his locker, fumbling with the dial with shaking fingers. Other students lined the hallway, or passed by, but almost all of them had something in common. They were either staring at Stiles or pointing at him and then assumedly talking about him to their friends. 

Derek frowned and stopped for a moment. Most of the students were whispering unintelligibly, but he heard one passing student say “fag.” Derek’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head; was this what they were all saying? 

He blinked and shook his head, and he walked over to Stiles. Derek put his hand lightly on Stiles’ shoulder to let him know he was there; Stiles was intently rooting through the contents of his locker. He jumped at the contact, his shoulder caught on the corner of the metal door, and there was a sharp intake of breath with possibly a muttered obscenity—though Derek couldn’t be sure. 

Derek took back his hand and made the apology sign on his chest. “ _Are you alright?_ ” he mouthed and signed. 

Stiles nodded and then raised another questioning eyebrow at him. 

Derek scrambled mentally for purchase. Stiles definitely knew how to disarm someone and leave them wondering how the hell that happened. 

“You’re pretty good at history, yeah?” Derek would have attempted to make the signs but Stiles summarily placed some books in his vicinity and his natural instinct was to take them. 

Stiles shrugged and placed a couple more books on the growing stack. Since when had Derek become a librarian’s assistant? And just how many books was Stiles hiding in there? 

Stiles grinned triumphantly and pulled out a thin…comic book? This was all for a comic book? That was a little irritating. Though his irritation quickly dissolved into something else when the grin was aimed at him. Stiles began putting away the books after he made the _thank you_ gesture. 

When Stiles finished putting away his things, he turned to Derek and raised that damned eyebrow again. 

“I…uh.” Derek coughed to clear his throat. “I may be needing some help. I was wondering if you might like to help me?” 

Stiles gave this weird half shrug and gave the signs for okay. “ _When?_ ”

Derek paused before replying, slightly flabbergasted that he had agreed so readily. Derek had hoped he would, but he wasn’t certain, and he hadn’t really planned for getting a yes. 

“How about Friday at six? I have…practice…after school.” Should he have mentioned that? Stiles had just quit that morning. Had Derek put his foot in his mouth again? 

Stiles seemed unaffected, though, so Derek took that as a good sign. Stiles nodded and gave him a small smile, a little different than the one from World History, and paused in a way that made Derek think he was waiting for something; it gave an air of anticipation, a foot ready to take a step. 

“Is this your lunch period?” Derek had just noticed that Stiles was carrying a brown paper bag, which he assumed to be the guy’s lunch. At Stiles’ nod, he continued, “Great! Maybe I’ll see you there.” 

Derek put on what he hoped to be a winning smile, though it felt a little off kilter. Stiles looked bemused as he turned on his heel and walked away. 

Sagging as he let out a deep sigh, Derek felt tension within him melt away. Oddly, it wasn’t a bad sort of tension, the way that Stiles made him feel. 

_He definitely knows how to keep me off balance, even if he’s not trying._

 

***********

 

Derek sat down with his tray at his normal table with several other senior members of the lacrosse team. He didn’t want to press his luck with Stiles; he had already asked him on a study date—the term was used lightly—and had sat next to him during the period prior. 

That was enough, right? Derek wanted to come off smooth, not clingy. Definitely not needy. 

He saw Stiles sitting at a table in the deepest corner away from the door. He glanced over at the table filled with Scott, Lydia, Jackson and the like and noticed that Stiles’ usual spot was taken by some freshman member of the team. In fact, it already seemed like his normal seat was no longer his normal seat. Rationally, Derek realised this was foolish, but it still felt like it was true. 

Stiles sat there, absentmindedly taking bites out of a sandwich and reading his comic. He paid as little attention to his old group—Derek noticed belatedly that he was already referring to them as Stiles’ former group; would Stiles want that? Did he think of them that way himself?—as they were to him. 

Then Stiles stole a furtive glance over at them, zeroed in on Scott (from what Derek could tell), and then looked back at his comic, turning the page. Deep sorrow flickered across Stiles’ face when he had looked over at them. 

The next time Stiles looked up, it was directly at Derek. Stiles flushed a furious red, which causes Derek to smile a little but also blush—he could feel it seeping up his neck—and then make it seem like he had been interested in his comic book the whole time. 

The smile still on his face—though the blush was more under control now—Derek pulled out his phone and brought up his messages app. 

_[Message received: Stiles Stilinski._  
 _I wasn’t sure if you were gonna use this. But it’s actually a long story. Maybe I’ll tell it to you some day. There are a bunch of sites you can look up. I’ll get back to you on specific ones later. Isn’t the seminar over?_  
 _Yesterday, 19.53]_

Derek had finally texted Stiles, two days after he had gotten the boy’s number. There had been numerous deletions and do-overs before he had finally settled on the normal greeting—he remembered thinking to himself, _Way to stand out from the crowd, Hale_ —and asking after the best way to learn ASL and Stiles’ own method. 

He had pointedly avoided answering the seminar question, hopefully evading any other damning type questions in the process, and had thanked Stiles for any information. And he then had thought how he now sounded like a grad student thanking his professor for help on a thesis. 

This was sure to be an interesting week. 

 

***********

 

The week passed interminably for Derek. But suddenly it was Friday and he swore time was moving too quickly. Practice was already finished, something he thought his teammates and Coach Finstock were ready for—Finstock had even taken Derek aside and gruffly asked him what was distracting him so; he had even attempted to shout at Derek to get him motivated. Needless to say, for both Coach and Derek, the effort had fallen flat. 

But Derek’s mind hadn’t been on practice, or even class. He had tried to take good notes in chemistry again—for practical reasons, mind—but his attention had flitted away to the fact that the boy who had sat next to him—of his own volition! Derek had reached the classroom first that time—would be at his house in several hours. (Derek would ask someone else for notes to copy later.) 

Something Derek had never been able to entertain notions of before. He realised it was probably—finally—time to acknowledge the fact that he had been pining for one Stiles Stilinski since he had seen him walk through those lunchroom doors a year and a half ago. 

Laura had found out nearly instantly. He must have been drooling or had some expression on his face as Stiles walked by for the first time; Laura had noticed and had been picking at it like it was her favourite plaything ever since. She had begun that very first day after school—they had been prepped for the upcoming try-outs for the incoming freshmen—and hadn’t stopped since. 

His family! Why hadn’t Derek considered this before? He hadn’t even told them there was someone coming over. His sisters had friends over at the Hale house all the time; but he didn’t. This was something out of the ordinary, and his family were sure to comment on it in some way. He’d definitely need to make sure they didn’t do it while Stiles was there. 

Derek jumped into his car after washing away the sweat quickly in the showers, and he sped home as much as he dared. Though the week had gone so slowly, it had been interesting—and incredibly worrisome. 

Derek had had one shift at the station this week, that Monday, in fact. And he had overheard a conversation between the sheriff and one of his deputies, where the man had asked his subordinate if they had increased the number of patrols in the neighbourhood where the Stilinski house was located. The deputy had answered in the affirmative and that everything was in the clear as of fifteen minutes ago. 

Patrols were one thing, but ever since neighbourhoods had implemented a watch programme a few years ago, they had declined in order to put the effort and manpower in elsewhere. Why would the sheriff want his neighbourhood specifically watched? Obviously, it had something to do with Stiles; the man had always been protective of his son. But Derek had doubted it was just due to Stiles’ recent condition. 

The whispers, pointing and looks had continued daily. The whispers had escalated to blatant talking; apparently they had realised or remembered that Stiles couldn’t hear them. Someone had devised a game where the player got as close to Stiles as he or she could get without him noticing, all the while taunting him in some way. 

The worst thing about it all was that Derek couldn’t do anything about it. It wasn’t physical; there was no physical bullying. It was completely verbal, so there was no proof. It would be his word against basically the entire school, and he wasn’t sure if Stiles would even appreciate him stepping in like that. Maybe he’d bring it at his house. 

One of the most curious things to happen that week was during world history. Derek had been there first, and had taken his seat behind where Stiles sat two times previously. The bell had rung and Stiles hadn’t showed up yet.

Mrs Rosenthal had begun class, a few minutes into her lecture, when Stiles had entered, looking his most dishevelled. His hair was a complete mess, his eyes were slightly bloodshot, and his jaw was set in a way that brooked no approach. 

Stiles had signed an apology to Rosenthal and then turned to the class. His glower took them all in, and it didn’t soften at all when Stiles had looked at Derek. Derek had dropped his pen in shock at the anger in those eyes. In fact, the fire within seemed to burn more brightly when he faced Derek. 

The boy had taken his seat and the lecture had continued. Stiles hadn’t brought out his tablet or a notebook or anything. He had just sat there, with his arms crossed over his chest and shaking his leg like he was impatient for it to be over. 

Derek pulled into his driveway, a little surprised that the trip was already over and that he didn’t remember any of it. He hoped he hadn’t sped too much, but it was nearing five o’clock and there was a lot to be done. 

“Hi, ma!” Derek called as he took off his shoes after closing the front door. He hung his keys on the rack, tossed his bag down on the floor and took the stairs three at a time. 

He heard Talia shout after him, probably for leaving his bag on the floor again, but he had to make sure his room was presentable. And possibly pick up the rest of the house, too. Talia kept an amazing house, on top of being a councilwoman for the town and participating in several town committees, but the twins and Cora—sometimes even Laura—seemed determined usually to counteract her diligence. Countless times had Noah, Elijah and Cora been sent to their rooms because of messes they had made—though with Cora, those had recently been more in an attempt to get her to clean her own room, rather than as punishment for another transgression. 

Derek sighed in dismay as he took in his room. There were clothes everywhere. Hadn’t his mom purchased him a hamper? Had he misplaced the damn thing? He gathered up as much laundry as he could and walked down the hall to throw it down the chute. He’d go down and start a load later. 

Laden as he was, he didn’t see Laura until he heard her oof! as he ran into her with his laundry. 

“Watch it, housekeeper!” Laura said as she moved out of his way. “What’s with the sudden interest in getting your laundry done? Favourite undies missing?” 

Derek closed the wooden door that covered the chute—disguising it as a normal-looking linen cabinet—and turned to get the rest from his room. He rolled his eyes at her in answer. 

“Whatever, Der-bear.” Laura pushed at his shoulder and laughed when he stumbled a little. 

Eventually he got his room into the pristine condition he wanted. In fact, it no longer looked as though this room was lived in. He stood there, surveying his handiwork, arms akimbo, when he heard his mother call up for dinner. 

He went down and saw that she had gone all out again. There were mashed potatoes, a large ham, green beans, corn… It was like Thanksgiving all over again. He almost said as much when he felt a twinge of panic. 

He had said six o’clock. It was half five now. Would Stiles eat before? Should he have waited? 

Derek felt a hand touch his shoulder. His eyes focused on Talia who was asking, “Derek? Are you okay?” 

“What? Yeah, of course. Let’s eat! I’m starved.” Derek sat down and motioned for his mother to go away and do the same. Surely there would be leftovers in case Stiles wanted some. 

When the food had been passed around and everyone was eating, Derek said, “I have a classmate coming over to study for an exam coming up.” 

“A friend? Derek, that’s great!” Talia took a drink of her wine—she allowed herself a glass every Friday night for dinner. 

“Is it a girl?” David wondered. Laura laughed into her glass of tea. Derek may have kicked her under the table—there would be no proof. 

“His name is Stiles, actually.” Derek took a bite of his ham. 

Laura spat out her tea. 

“Laura!” cried his mom.

Cora dropped her fork, splattering corn and juices over her dad’s hand. 

“Cora!” 

The twins were wholly unaffected by the entire ordeal. 

“Stiles is coming here? You invited Stiles to our house?” Laura asked around a napkin as wiped her mouth. 

Derek nodded. That went exactly about how he had expected. Though he hoped his mom and dad didn’t look too much into his sisters’ reactions. 

“He should be here around six.” 

“Wait a moment… Stiles? Sheriff Stilinksi’s son?” Derek should have known his mother would be able to figure it out. She seemed to know everybody. “Is he doing all right? I remember getting a memo about it after the sheriff made his statement.” 

Derek nodded in answer. He gathered his plate, glass and silverware and took them to the kitchen. Talia, of course, quickly followed. Derek sighed internally. 

“Is Stiles not doing well in one of his classes? Are you tutoring him? Is it for something the school is doing for him for his…disability?” Talia had paused, seeming to consider the best way to phrase that before deciding on that word. 

“Well, he’s coming here to help me. He’s brilliant, really. He was in regular level classes before winter break, but during he tested into all of my AP classes and a couple extra, actually. He’s amazing.” 

“He’s brilliant and amazing.” His mother repeated his words back to him. 

Derek sucked in a breath when he realised what he just said. His hand trembled as he placed his dish in the washer. 

“What he did. That he could test into those classes mid-semester. It’s incredible.” He didn’t turn to look at his mother, afraid that she would read too much into the blush that he was sure was covering his entire face and torso. 

“I’m sure it is.” There was something in Talia’s voice that made Derek want to turn and look at her, but he reined in that urge until he heard her walking away. He let out a deep breath. 

“You might want to change. You’re still in your lacrosse jersey.” His mother poked her head around the kitchen door. 

Derek had nearly fallen over.

 

*********

 

Six came and went. Derek had gone upstairs to change. He had decided on a button down shirt, untucked, and his good jeans. Laura had poked her head around his door and said, “Lookin’ good, baby bro!” Her fingers might have almost been smashed upon his kicking the door closed. 

He sat in the small room off to the side of the foyer that no one used—there was no computer or television in it; it was just a formal sitting room that had been in the house since his family had built it nearly a century ago. 

Half six came and went. Derek held his phone, willing its screen to flash into life, showing a message…anything. None came. 

At half eight, Derek was out on his porch, watching his breath mist before his eyes on this deeply cold winter night. He didn’t feel the cold, even though he was just in the long-sleeved button down and jeans. He didn’t really feel much of anything right then. No anger or irritation. No disappointment. Nothing. 

He had tried to escape to his room, but it seemed as though every member of his family had wanted to come and talk to him. His father had come in to tell him about the latest sports scores. His mother had come in with a glass of milk and a piece of chocolate cake she had made the other day; they were still setting on his bedside table. 

He had been able to tell that she wanted to say something, but he was eternally grateful for her keeping her silence. Cora had been next. She had swiftly told him she was unimpressed with Stiles. An eighth grader wasn’t impressed by a sophomore—go figure. 

The boys had come in with their handheld consoles and asked if he had wanted to play Pokémon with them. Noah had just caught a Pikachu that Derek could borrow, while Eli had just competed against some gym something that Derek could battle against, too. She was super easy. Derek had smiled, ruffled their hair, and told them he might come play with them later. 

Laura had sat there on his bed with him. “So, he’s just a dick, then.” 

“No! I’m sure… There’s a perfectly good reason he didn’t show up.” Derek hadn’t looked at her, certain there was something in his eyes he didn’t want her to see. “I don’t think he was having the greatest day at school. Maybe he…forgot?” 

“Then he’s a jerk for forgetting. You shouldn’t make excuses for him.” 

“And you shouldn’t jump to see the worst in people, Laura!” 

He had heard her give a sigh and then she’d put her arm around his shoulders, squeezed and left. That was when Derek had decided to get outside of the house, as quickly and quietly as possible, to evade any further interruptions. He just wanted to be alone. 

Derek picked up a rock that was on the porch—one of the boys had probably been playing with it earlier in the day, before it had gotten too cold with the setting sun—and threw it toward the line of trees that surrounded the house. There was a satisfying crack and crash as it fell to the ground, breaking off a branch and rustling the underbrush on its trajectory toward the earth. 

That was when he smelled it. Smoke. It was from a wood fire. It definitely wasn’t a barbecue. 

Derek quietly opened the front door; he could see the glow of the television from the larger family room. David and Cora laughed at something—they generally liked the same sitcoms. He grabbed his coat from the closet and his keys; there was a penlight on one of the keychains. 

He traversed through the trees and sparse underbrush, mostly dead or dying. The smoke smell was getting thicker, though he didn’t see the telltale glow of a fire yet. 

There had been a forest fire when he was younger. The entire horizon over the canopy of the trees had been orange. Smoke had covered the entire sky. At least, that’s what it had felt like when he’d been seven years old. They had quickly contained it, and it had been nowhere near their house. 

Suddenly, Derek was in a small clearing. There was a small fire toward the middle, ringed with stones, like a campfire—no tents were present. Sat on a stone outcropping was Stiles. An empty bottle of whisky lay at his feet, another, fuller bottle was grasped loosely in his hand. 

Stiles turned toward Derek and promptly fell off his rocky seat. 

He shot to his feet, a little unsteadily, and caught himself and his balance on the rock. 

Derek had put one foot out to run toward Stiles before he had popped back up behind the outcropping. 

“Of course it’s you, Derek Hale. Only you would show up here.” Stiles’ eyes grew wider and wider when he realised what he had done. He had spoken aloud to Derek!  
Then his face fell back into a sort of glazed, calm expression. “Oh, fuck it. I’m too buzzed to think about sign language.” 

Derek noticed that his words were a little off. He wasn’t sure if it was being tipsy or if it was due to the fact that he couldn’t hear himself, though he had read that people who become deaf later in life, after having developed speech, could still speak without impairment. That was why he had been curious as to why Stiles chose not to speak. 

Stiles positioned himself back onto the stone, which had a surprisingly smooth surface. He patted the spot next to him. “Well, if you’re here, you might as well join me. I can’t imagine a better way to spend my Friday night.” The tone was bitter, though the expression didn’t match. 

Derek paused in front of Stiles to make sure he was looking at him before he said, “So you couldn’t make it to my house to study because you were out here drinking?” 

He then sat down next to him on the rock. Not the height of luxury, to be sure, but it was something. 

Stiles turned his head to look at the glass bottle Derek’s foot had touched when he mentioned drinking. “No, that was nearly empty when I brought it out here. And there’s a pretty funny story behind why I didn’t come to your house, actually.” 

“Why did you bring a nearly empty bottle of liquor when there was a full one? Are they your dad’s? What’s the story?” 

“To make it obvious that they’re gone, of course! Maybe then he’ll actually talk to me.” Stiles’ face crumpled, and Derek was sure he was about to burst into tears, when suddenly he took a deep breath and the smirk was back in place. 

It tore at something inside Derek. If Stiles was this good at keeping his emotions in check while at least half-way to drunk… 

“I’m sure the sheriff talks to you, Stiles.” 

“Oh, right. The sheriff to you, isn’t it? No, Derek Alexander Hale, he talks _at_ me.” Stiles rubbed his nose and then his arms. Derek noticed that he was shivering. Stiles got up and walked over to the fire, squatting before it and placing his hands out to warm them. He took a swig of the whisky. 

Derek followed and sat on the cold, densely packed earth on the opposite side of the fire. “You know my middle name?” 

“I was the equipment manager for a year and a half.” The tone implied an unspoken _dumbass_. 

“What’s the funny story behind your decision to come out here instead of to my house?” 

Stiles stood up, took another drink from the bottle, and clasped his hands behind his back. He began pacing. “Oh, well. Something happened that I thought you were in on. So I figured it would be a bad idea to go to your house.” 

Derek was confused. “What happened?” 

Stiles burst out laughing, but it was incredibly forced. “Some guys asked me to meet them in the locker room Thursday night. They said it was something about the equipment; they couldn’t find a certain whatever. I don’t know. It was a ruse. There was a note on the door that said they had gone out to the field and to meet them there instead. I should have known…” 

“What happened, Stiles?” Derek asked when the guy’s pacing brought him back facing Derek again. 

“I didn’t see them on the field practicing. I was about to walk away when they jumped from underneath the bleachers and threw water balloons at me. My phone is at home in a bag of rice—probably ruined. That’s the third phone this month. My dad’s gonna kill me.” Stiles gave a choked laugh. “But that’s not even the funniest bit. They weren’t filled with water. The guys filled them with their own urine.” 

“Oh my god, Stiles.” Derek stood up and reached out a hand toward the other boy. “I’m so—”

Stiles slapped Derek’s arm away and moved to sit on the stone again. “You knew, didn’t you? You had to know. You’re the captain. The team doesn’t do anything you don’t say for them to do. I don’t even know… I don’t even know why they did it.” 

His voice cracked in the middle, and he reached up a hand to wipe at his face. “But I can guess.” 

_Oh god, now he actually is crying. And he thinks I had something to do with this? Oh god._ Derek didn’t even know how to begin handling this. 

He walked around the rock to stand in front of Stiles. He placed his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and squeezed, trying to get him to look up. Stiles finally did, tear-filled deep brown eyes meeting Derek’s. 

“No. God, no. Stiles, I had nothing to do with this. I asked you on Monday because I really wanted your help in world history.” 

Stiles’ eyes flickered over Derek’s face as though searching for something. Derek hoped it was truth he would find. 

“Okay.” Just one word, very softly spoken, as Stiles bowed his head in a defeated gesture. 

Derek squeezed again. “Who? Who were these guys?” 

_Please don’t say McCall or Jackson or Danny. Please… I don’t want to have punch out your best friend._ Derek didn’t think that would have the best of repercussions. 

Stiles rattled off a list of names that thankfully did not include either Whittemore or McCall, though the majority of them were first stringers. He’d deal with them later. 

“It took two hours of scrubbing to get the smell off my skin. At least ten washings to get it out of my hair. I can still smell it, I think, though that’s irrational.” 

Derek fought the urge to gather Stiles in his arms and wrap him in a hug. He did, however, give in to the desire to take off his coat and lay it across Stiles’ shoulders. 

“Why do you think they did this?” 

“The two main dudes, Rick and Larry… My dad busted them once for drinking out here on the preserve. It’s where I got the idea. Funny, right?” Stiles subconsciously wrapped the coat around himself, and Derek fought a pleased smile. 

“Do you… Do you wanna talk about it?” Derek asked hesitantly. He knew he should be trying to get Stiles out of here. Even he was starting to feel the cold. 

“No, let’s talk about something else. Please.” 

Stiles looked at Derek with such a sad, torn, pleading expression on his face that he felt as though his heart could burst any second. 

“Okay, Stiles. Okay. Uh… How did you learn sign language?” 

Stiles laughed again, though it was more genuine and only sounded a little wet. “You sure know how to ask the hard-hitting questions first.” He sniffed before continuing, “I learned with my mom. It was something we liked to do. Along with watching classic romance movies.” 

Stiles moved unabashedly onto this new topic, almost as though he didn’t want to linger on the former. He smiled at Derek, the same one he had given him in the history class, and Derek felt like he was glowing. 

“You know the ones. ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’” He put on an affected accent, one that you might hear in a black and white film, from some guy in a suit. Stiles placed a finger under Derek’s chin to bring his face up a little and tapped the corner of his mouth with that same finger. Stiles’ eyes were locked onto his. “Or ‘although you need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.’” 

Derek blinked and stood poised leaning forward toward Stiles. He couldn’t hear anything but the thudding of his own heart. He hoped that the firelight didn’t illuminate Derek’s flush or his dilated pupils—at least he assumed they were blown. Time slowed down and then rushed forward seemingly simultaneously. 

Stiles smiled again, his eyes drifting off to the side and removed his hand. “Do you know them?” At Derek’s head shake, he said, “Well, that’s unfortunate. They’re classic, you know. Myself, I’m more of a Disney romance guy. Songs and sunshine, right?” Stiles giggled. "Well, not the songs. People don't break out into songs. That's just silly."

Stiles turned on the stone and slide down its surface to the ground, laughing as he went. Derek, still dazed from the contact, slowly walked around to sit by him. 

“I want someone to give me their last meatball. I want someone to pretend to be someone completely different just to try and impress me, to win my heart. I want someone to change their entire lifestyle, to give up something they loved, to be with me. But no…” Stiles laughed again. “I’m like Belle. I’m weird. I don’t fit in. I don’t have a Beast or Prince Adam to give me the perfect gift. Who wouldn’t want an entire library?” 

Stiles was about to take another drink from the bottle, but Derek reached out and gently took it from his hands. Stiles didn’t protest. 

“Derek? I think I’d like to go home now, but I’m not sure where I am.” 

Derek laughed softly as he turned to pour out the rest of the whisky. There was only about a quarter left. Stiles was sure to hurt tomorrow, though he looked like he was handling his liquor rather well. Derek wasn’t certain if he should be impressed or worried. He used a rock to dig up some of the loose earth and threw it over the fire to smother it. 

Derek turned back to find Stiles with his head against the stone fast asleep. He picked the boy up and started the trek back to his car. Stiles woke a little and half-heartedly protested about being able to walk, even though he pressed his face against Derek’s arm. 

Derek knew that the sheriff was on overnight duty, so he hoped that the coast would be clear to get Stiles home. 

_No studying got done, but I still learned some things…_ Not all of which were necessarily good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you're welcome to join me on my [tumblr](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com), to chat, share in the feels, or just browse around! 
> 
> And, as a hint-hint, comments are the fuel that I use to propel me toward the next chapter! So, logically, more comments... Well, I'll let you fill in the blanks. ^_^ 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and a special thank you to [leviathanlost](http://www.leviathanlost.tumblr.com) for reading this and giving me a good suggestion on something I should have done! Give him some love! 
> 
> Until next time, my sweets!


	7. Revealing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one wherein there are new threats, new answers and a new development.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically a day late, but to appease those of you who might have pitchforks at the ready... It's over ten thousand words of nearly pure Sterek interaction. So... Please don't end my life just yet! 
> 
> A big thanks goes out to both my grammarian's grammarian, [lunawho47](http://www.lunawho47.tumblr.com)leviathanlost, for getting this back to me so quickly. 
> 
> Now, let's get on to the Sterek!

World history had been a slightly puzzling class period to go through. It had felt as though there were eyes on him the entire time, but when he had looked around him, everyone was either paying their attention to Mrs Rosenthal or, at the very least, definitely not to him. 

He had gotten to school early, miscalculating the time it would take to walk to school. He passed the lacrosse field on his way in—usually the back door was unlocked for the team, now on off-season practices, to get back inside. He had seen Derek standing to the side of the field, shouting as different players ran through different plays. Stiles had then noticed that a few members were doing suicides on the far side of the field, opposite from the bleachers, and from the way they were stumbling over the lines, they had been doing suicides for a while. He hadn’t been able to see their faces, but he was able to make out the numbers on their practice jerseys. They were all the guys that Stiles had mentioned who had thrown the balloons at him. Stiles hadn’t been able to wipe the smirk from his face as he walked inside the school building.

Stiles had booked it out of the history room in order to get to Harris' classroom on time. Last week, he had been maybe ten seconds late, and the teacher had sent him to the office to get a tardy slip. Then, the terrible man had proceeded to teach his lesson facing away from the side of the room in which Stiles had sat; though Stiles was certain that, if he brought it up to the administration, Harris would deny any conscious effort on his part to face that side of the room. Unfortunately, Harris had tenure, though Stiles never knew how anyone could think that he possessed an appropriate personality type for teaching. 

Plus, Stiles had to veer back to his locker to retrieve something. He wasn’t sure what made him put it in his locker before first period, but he had, and now he had to go get it. Well, he probably knew, but he wasn’t going to admit it to anyone.

If anyone asked, Stiles would deny his activities that weekend. He hadn’t worn the leather jacket basically the entire weekend. Nope, no siree. It had remained on the back of his desk chair both Saturday and Sunday. Untouched. He definitely hadn’t slept in it beyond Friday night, when he had woken up in his own bed, wrapped in the warm garment. 

That morning had been…eventful. Stiles had woken up with a headache—and a blind panic. The pain had been immense, if it couldn’t be termed excruciating, and it had immediately reminded him of _that_ morning. Eventually sense had returned, and he realised that he was in his own bed, clothed in something that was incredibly warm and smelled…well, amazing…and that nothing was wrong except an unusually strong hang over. 

As the weekend had progressed, Stiles had definitely at least _tried_ to take off the jacket, but it seemed to want to be worn, like it would have been a sin of the highest magnitude to let it just hang there in his room. It was wrong to sin, right?  
Stiles remembered that night perfectly—well, some of the finer details might have been lost. So he knew exactly whose jacket it was, and that fact made him want to wear it even more. He remembered the way Derek had taken it off as he was rambling about something and laid it across his shoulders. He vaguely remembered waking up in a moving vehicle and had felt something incredibly warm laid across his body; Stiles had later realised that Derek had been kindly taking him home. Derek had gently shaken him awake upon pulling into his driveway and had helped Stiles fully into the jacket instead of taking it home with him. (Stiles might have been a little too drunkenly attached to it; there might have been some whining involved when he assumed Derek wanted to take it home. He thought he remembered Derek signing something to the effect of Derek knowing Stiles was cold, that’s why he willingly gave him the jacket.) 

Any way it had happened, it had certainly kept a smile on Stiles’ face through the whole weekend. And who was he kidding? The thing was so comfortable and warm, of course he had slept in it! And it had smelled so good. Like sandalwood, and the forest after it rained, and something that could only be described as Derek. (And he realised that it was probably bordering on the weird side of things to be thinking of Derek as a smell.) 

Stiles blamed his wearing the jacket on the sheriff; his father liked to keep the house on the cool side of things, even in the winter, no matter how many times Stiles had complained to the man about it. 

But now the smile had evaporated. He had quickly retrieved the leather jacket from his locker and went into the chemistry classroom. Fortunately, he was the first one there; not even Harris was there. The fact that the odious man would eventually be in that room was the main reason for the disappearance of Stiles’ smile. 

Stiles walked over to his table and placed his bag on the floor next to his seat. He carefully draped the jacket over the seat next to him—hoping against hope that Derek would be one of the first few students who entered the classroom and that he’d still choose to sit next to Stiles; though the guy had sat next to him during all three periods last week, so that was something, right? 

It seemed as though fortune was smiling upon him. Derek was the very next person to walk through the doorway, and, if pressed, Stiles could have sworn that a smile split his face as soon as he saw Stiles. Stiles’ stomach did a flip. 

_Good God, I’m like a soccer mom who’s looking at her first cup of coffee in the morning._

A nasty voice in the back of his mind pointed out that the raven-haired guy approaching him was probably only happy because he was getting his more-than-likely expensive leather jacket back. 

But then Derek’s smile changed slightly as his eyes lit upon the jacket draped over the seat; it was more of a surprised, pleasant smile… 

_Wait, what am I doing? Writing a book called_ The Smiles of Derek Hale 101 _? What the hell._

“ _My jacket_ ,” Derek signed. He looked over Stiles before he continued, “ _Do you have your coat? It’s freezing outside._ ” 

Stiles’ eyes grew impossibly wide as a blush crept up his neck. How could he have been so stupid as to wear Derek’s jacket to school and forget his own? He always wore a jacket. Layers were his thing! 

Stiles blinked rapidly at Derek as he mentally floundered. “ _Mine is in my locker. I didn’t get sick on it or anything._ ” Light panic gripped him tight and social etiquette went out the window. His hands flew through signs. “ _I can dry clean it for you, if you want._ ” 

Stiles’ mouth hung open. He couldn’t believe what he was saying. The blush that had been dissipating came back in full force. 

Derek’s eyes were crinkled in what Stiles could only term an affectionate or fond expression—and there he went again, classifying Derek’s every facial nuance, studying it like he was some sort of cartographer. But then he frowned slightly and made a confused face as his eyes went from Stiles’ hands back up to his face, seemingly searching for answers there. 

Other students were beginning to enter the room, so Derek took the jacket from the seatback and shrugged it on. Stiles’ lips quirked upward as he fought a smile and he turned away to hide it; he brought out his notebook and a pen, but kept surreptitiously glancing at Derek. Stiles nearly burst out laughing—which would have been a mixture of hilarity and mortification—after Derek turned his face and brought up the collar of the leather jacket and sniffed it when he thought Stiles wasn’t looking. 

Something flickered across Derek’s face as he battled to keep his expression the same, especially after he noticed that Stiles was staring. Both of the students flushed and looked away. 

After Harris finally ventured into his domain, as he so smugly called it, trying to assert his dominance as Stiles had told him one day early last semester in his regular chemistry class—which had gained him laughter from Scott and other students in the class (surprisingly), and it had also garnered him a trip to the principal’s office and a visit from his father who definitely hadn’t been too happy to come back to Beacon Hills High—Stiles leaned over toward Derek, glancing around to make sure nobody was watching, holding a neatly folded piece of paper between two fingers. 

“Psst. Hey.” 

Derek’s head jerked over to Stiles—who had to rear back in order to avoid being crushed to death, or so he thought would be a distinct possibility—eyebrows raised and eyes wide in surprise. 

“Wanna go all middle school up in this bitch?” Stiles whispered, again glancing around to determine that all eyes were kept to themselves or on Harris, who was still getting things ready at his desk. 

Derek’s eyebrows lowered in a confused frown—one that Stiles absolutely, most certainly did _not_ find insanely adorable—and took that piece of paper from Stiles’ fingers. 

“Discretion is Priority One,” Stiles whispered—emphatic capitals included—before feigning complete innocence in opening his chemistry book to the proper chapter. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles saw that Derek’s shoulders were shaking in silent laughter as he read Stiles’ note.  
Stiles had written a lengthy soliloquy while Harris had been getting things set up. It seemed as though he would be using a presentation today—a nice change from the past week. 

> `
> 
> **Firstly, I know I said that discretion is of the utmost importance. You must be willing to eat this should Harris take notice. Eat it! Secondly, and I realise now that I should have said this firstly, I wanted to say thanks. You know… For Friday. That was really great of you. (Unless you took photographic blackmail and then you’re a teenage deviant. A menace! But I don’t think you did, so you’re still on my good list.) And thirdly, I think, if I remember right, I have some explaining to do…**
> 
> `

Derek glanced up at him, mirth still in his eyes, then at Harris who had begun professing his vast knowledge of chemistry (still with the majority of his back to their side of the room), and then he took up his pencil—and seriously, who uses a pencil to take notes?—and began writing. After a few minutes, Derek carefully slid the paper over to Stiles’ end of the table. There may have been some fingertip brushing as Stiles eagerly reached for the note—is this what passing notes felt like? Stiles and Scott had never done it; they had just whispered in class until the teacher caught on and separated them for the rest of the day—but it wasn’t anything to write home about. Really. 

He took one look at the reply and laid his head upon the desk for a moment. Of course Derek Hale would have perfect, neat handwriting, whereas Stiles’ looked like the scrawl of a chicken on methamphetamines. He wrote as much after reading the rest of Derek’s response:

> `_My sensors have locked onto Harris and will monitor his every move, Captain. And it’s okay, I was glad to help. Thanks for remembering to bring my jacket back. And some explanations would be great, but not necessary if you don’t want._`

And of course Derek Hale is the perfect gentleman in note form, too. Was there anything wrong with this guy?

Stiles wrote,

> `**Of course you have perfect handwriting. Why is that such a surprise? It honestly shouldn’t be. And you’re a Trekkie?! I can’t believe this. What’s your favourite series? This could make or break our friendship, no lie. So answer honestly but carefully. And I would like to explain some things, at the very least. However, I implore you to forget anything I may or may not have said about old classic movies or Disney flicks, because…that wasn’t me. I was temporarily insane and my neurons were firing the wrong neurotransmitters or something. So it wouldn’t hold up in a court of law,**`

and slid the piece of notebook paper back over to him.

Derek bit off a laugh, causing some nearby students to look at him, and he quickly placed his chemistry textbook over the note. Stiles admired the apparent note-passing, discretionary skills of the boy who didn’t seem as though he would have passed that many notes. 

After a few moments of neighbouring classmates giving them odd looks—most of them directed at Stiles, as though he’d normally be the source of a disruption (which yeah, he would, but that wasn’t the point here!)—they returned to either paying their attention to Harris or themselves, and Derek slipped the paper out from under the book and continued writing before finally sending it back over to Stiles.

> ` _I’m sure the word of a high school lacrosse player wouldn’t hold up in court. And I’m a fan of all the series? Though don’t tell anyone. Apparently it’s only cool to like the 2009 reboot, though it’s completely okay to enjoy the hell out of anything Abrams. And you can tell me anything you want, if that’s not too weird…_ `

Stiles nearly choked holding back a chuckle. _Oh God, he’s an Abramsite, too?_

> `**That was as good an answer as any, I guess. Though I’ll have to grill your true favourite out of you some time. Anyway, the entire point of this convoluted exercise was to ask you about history. Were you really wanting my help? Did I say sorry yet? Because if not, dude… I’m sorry. I…well, I think I already told you about that, so we can just forget about it. But if you’re still interested, and you think *I* could actually help *you* then…a second chance might be what I’m asking for here.**`

Stiles tried to be nonchalant about watching Derek’s reaction, but he was fairly sure he failed in that respect. He didn’t know what to think about the way Derek’s smile grew larger until he was certain that the entire world should be dazzled, but he did know that it made his stomach do that stupid, really annoying flip again.

Derek was still grinning as he hastily scribbled—literally scribbled; Stiles could see the effect in his handwriting once the guy had passed him the note—his reply.

> `That would be great! When do you think you’d want to come over?`

Stiles wrote _tomorrow afternoon?_ and gave it back. He looked up at the clock and grasped Derek’s arm in panic. Harris was walking toward their table with that child-predator look of his—the one he got when he was about to dole out punishments or bad marks on exams.

Derek looked up at him in surprise, still with a smile on his face—seriously, that face; it should be illegal—and Stiles jerked his head in the teacher’s direction. Derek’s eyes widened comically when he saw Harris coming, and at any other time Stiles most definitely would have burst into laughter, but now was not the time, okay? 

Then Derek surprised him by crumpling up the paper and _sticking it down his pants_. It was Stiles’ turn to have his eyes bug out of his face. 

“Is there something you’d like to share with the class, Stilinski?” At Stiles’ shaking head, Harris turned to look at Derek. “What about you, Mr Hale?” Derek also shook his head. 

The entire class was looking at them, Stiles was sure of it. He could feel the heat rising in his face. Then Stiles realised the brilliance of Derek’s quick action when Harris asked them both to empty their pockets. Soon enough there were two cell phones, an amalgamation of change and a whole lot of lint laying on the table top. 

Harris took Stiles’ phone and said, “You can retrieve this after school.” He pointedly ignored the fact that there were two cell phones in front of the students. 

Derek opened his mouth—presumably to argue, which again, really?—but Stiles touched his shoulder and shook his head again when the boy looked at him. Derek’s nostrils flared out in a heavy sigh—or so Stiles guessed—but he looked back down at the table without saying anything. 

Stiles then jumped a little because there was suddenly a flurry of activity around the classroom. He looked around, startled, and saw that students were up and milling about, settling with other students and talking animatedly about something.

Some girl came up to their table and said something to the other boy, but Derek’s head was blocking her as she bent down—clearly trying to show off her cleavage to Derek—so he couldn’t see. 

His stomach sank as Derek turned back around and mouthed, “Harris said we’re to split into pairs and come up with project ideas for the rest of the period.” 

And obviously Derek wanted to go with the pretty girl, which was absolutely understandable. There were no signs for rambling so he whispered inaudibly, “No, yeah, sure, of course, go, man.” And that might have been a tad confusing—as evidenced by Derek’s slight frown—before Derek finally turned back to the girl.

Stiles placed his head on his hand, which was laid on the table, and began to doodle on the notebook that was still out. He was halfway through drawing something that might have been a flying lion-bird—he had always been awful at doodling, or anything art-related, period—when he started at a touch on his arm. 

He looked over and saw Derek sitting there, looking more like he was settling in—he was leaning against the chair back—rather than gathering his things to leave. Stiles flushed at a sudden thought. Did he want Stiles to move, instead of going himself? The girl was gone, but she might have left to retrieve her things… 

Stiles signed another apology. “ _I’ll go_.” He flipped closed his notebook and half rose out of his chair when Derek’s hand grasped his wrist. There was a sense of déjà vu before Stiles remembered. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” 

Stiles sat back down, fighting the urge to grin wildly—because why would that be a sane reaction to Derek’s desire for them to work together instead of Derek going off into the sunset or whatever other cliché there might be—and wrote out on his notebook (not tearing the sheet off this time),

> ` **Do you know signs for chemistry? And all things chemistry related?** `

Stiles knew that Derek realised he could speak, but he hoped Derek wouldn’t push him on the issue. It was one of many things he wanted to clarify for him. Stiles felt as though Derek deserved some explanations. After all, he was the only one who seemed to want to be friends with the deaf kid.

Instead of responding by writing, Derek blushed and shook his head. 

“ _You talk and I will ‘listen.’_ ” He ended by using his fingers to make quotation marks in the air and gave a wry smile. 

Derek nodded and pulled out his own notebook, which was covered in different coloured post-its and flags. Apparently he wasn’t as neat and organised in all aspects of his life; though there could be some sense of reason in all that chaos.  
Derek opened to a section that had notes scrawled all over it. And by ‘scrawled,’ he meant they were still in that neat, tidy handwriting. He had obviously already begun his project, which was surprising (and oddly gratifying). 

And then Derek started speaking about the Big Bang theory, the chemical makeup of stars, and the percentages of hydrogen and helium, and really, Stiles would have “listened” more closely, but it was just so…interesting…to watch Derek talk.

Stiles could tell that Derek was incredibly excited about this topic. His generally controlled facial expressions were going haywire as he moved from topic to topic. When he spoke about how the same elements that are found within the human body are found within stars, his eyes lit up and a smile grew on his face. 

_Holy shit. I think I’m falling--_

A hand slammed a piece of paper down onto the table in between Stiles and Derek, and Stiles nearly toppled over in fright.

Harris was looming over them, and the paper he had forcibly put on the desk was a notice to report to the principal’s office. And it had Stiles’ name on it. 

Stiles took a deep breath before looking up at Harris to see what warped justification he would provide this time. He caught the tail end of Harris’ rant. 

“—think you can parade yourself in my classroom without participating, Stilinski, you’d better think again. You’ve done absolutely nothing in this class so far since enrolling, and that’s a clear violation of my policy.” 

“But he was just about to explain what his project was on before—” Derek said, facing Stiles but looking up at Harris. 

Harris interjected, with a smug smile aimed at Stiles, “Was I directing my comments to you, Mr Hale?” 

Stiles wasn’t the only one who noticed the addition of Derek’s title in contrast to his lack of one, if the set of Derek’s jaw was anything to discern. “No, sir,” he gritted out. 

“Then I suggest you pack up your things and find yourself a new partner, because Stilinski here has earned himself an exit visa.” With that, Harris walked away, content to ruin Stiles’ day yet again.

This time Derek signed an apology to Stiles, and he thought it was adorable that he mistakenly used his left hand. Stiles reached for his pack, and when he turned back, Derek was holding the crumpled up page in his hand. 

Stiles laughed a little and made a sign with his hands, gesturing out to Derek. “ _You keep it._ ”

He chuckled again as he placed his things back in his bag, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Derek smoothed out the wrinkles of the paper and put it between the pages of his notebook before closing it up. 

Stiles stood up and headed for the door. He glanced back and the burn of jealousy swept through his veins. That girl—Erica, his mind not-so-helpfully provided—hadn’t even waited for him to vacate the room before bringing her things over to his spot and sitting down. She was talking animatedly to Derek, who didn’t seem all that against this turn of events. 

Stiles walked toward the library. Harris wouldn’t check whether he actually went to the principal’s office; Stiles knew that the man just wanted to mess with him, get him out of the classroom. Ever since Stiles’ first day in the regular freshmen chemistry class last year, Harris couldn’t get enough of making Stiles’ life at Beacon Hills High a miserable time. 

He found a nice chair toward the back of the large room, surrounded on all sides by books, and he got out a book from his backpack to read. The universe had other plans, apparently. 

A hand wrapped around Stiles’ face, covering his mouth and nose, and another wrenched under his arm and pulled. Stiles was dragged even further into the library, completely out of earshot—or so he assumed—of the circulation desk at the front. He was shoved toward the wall, and he stumbled, tried to catch himself before thudding to the floor. 

Stiles looked up at his assailant and was greeted with the wicked, twisted grin of Matt Daehler. 

“That’s right; I’m back, bitches!” Matt said, spreading his hands wide. “I’ve been to hell and it spat me back out.” 

Matt had been sent to juvenile detention for 60 days for beating a kid until he blacked out. The other student had received a concussion and a short stay in the hospital. Since it was his first offence, and because his lawyer had been able to prove that the other kid—who had since transferred—had started it, the judge had ordered a psych evaluation and some time in juvie. (Stiles knew this because he was a snooper and his dad hadn’t changed his safe’s combination in ten years.) 

Stiles also knew that this wasn’t his first real offence. Daehler got into fights all the time; this one had just happened to be on school property. 

“I just so happen to be in a free period and look who walks in. The sheriff’s kid!” He laughed, and Stiles could only imagine that it was as menacing as it looked. 

Not that Stiles was scared, of course. He was just wary. This kid was more than likely clinically insane. He enjoyed hurting people. 

“The sheriff who arrested me. The sheriff who locked me up in a cell for two days while I waited for the judge to find time for my case. The sheriff who looked at me with fucking pity, like I didn’t know what I did. The sheriff who dropped me off two months ago at a detention facility where he said I’d get the help I need.” 

Stiles flinched every time the guy said his father’s title. He could tell there was venom in the way he said it, even if he couldn’t hear Matt. 

“I heard that you were deaf now.” Matt chuckled at his own unfortunate choice of words. “Get it?” 

Stiles kept his mouth shut. That must have been the wrong thing to do, as Matt was suddenly up in his space, crowding him against the wall. Something glinted as one of Matt’s hands twisted and then there was cold, sharp steel pressed against Stiles’ throat. Matt had a butterfly knife against Stiles’ neck. He tried really hard not to swallow as he looked back into Matt’s eyes. 

“Going deaf doesn’t mean you’re mute, does it?” Matt pressed the blade into Stiles’ skin. Stiles hissed as he felt it cut a thin line there. “Didn’t think so. But don’t worry. I’ll make you talk again. In some way or another, after this. I spent 60 days in hell, so the next two months of your life are gonna be just like those.” 

The blade disappeared and Matt patted Stiles’ chest. “But don’t worry. All the shrinks at that place think I’m a reformed man; they just don’t know how reformed.” And with that he turned on his heel and walked away. 

Stiles let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. He brought a finger up to his neck and it came away red. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. What did Daehler mean that he was going to make Stiles’ life hell? Did he not realise he was already there? It was high school, after all…

He gathered up his things, nodded to the librarian—half blind behind her thick, coke bottle glasses—and basically ran down the empty hallway to the nearest restroom. Stiles looked in the mirror and sighed in relief when he saw that it was only a small nick, barely noticeable on his pale skin. Well, it would be less noticeable if he cleaned up the small rivulets of blood that had trickled down from the wound. 

This was his life? Really? 

Eventually it stopped bleeding—who knew that a little cut on the neck wanted to bleed so much?—and Stiles made his way back to the chemistry classroom. He had that swooping motion in his stomach again as he thought about walking with Derek to the cafeteria. 

But then a thought occurred to him. Derek wasn’t interested in him; he just wanted help with his studies, right? And he had just sat by Stiles for the last hour or so. He wouldn’t want to walk with him to lunch. And even if Stiles forced his company upon Derek, they’d reach the lunchroom and then…what? Go to their separate tables? That would just be awkward. 

Stiles set his jaw and tried to continue on past Harris’ room without looking in, but who was he kidding? Of course he looked through the door’s small window. He could just barely see Derek, who was now talking about his project, he presumed, to Erica. In basically the same fashion as he had spoken about it with Stiles. 

_So there really was nothing to write home about._

 

******************

Stiles sat at his usual table—or at least his new usual table—as the cafeteria was slowly filling up. He had been the first one in there, of course, but he had waited a bit to get his lunch, since he technically was supposed to be in class or in the administration’s offices. 

Stiles stiffened as he saw Scott and Allison enter, holding hands. Scott looked over at him and quickly away, practically pulling his girlfriend to their table, where Danny, Jackson and Lydia were already waiting. 

He let out a soft sigh as he bit into his apple, which is how Derek found him—with an apple in his mouth, stuck on his front teeth, of course. Stiles closed his eyes, willing himself to a different place. 

Stiles opened his eyes to find Derek now sitting down and opening his bottle of water. 

“ _What are you doing?_ ” Stiles signed at him when he had his attention. 

Oddly, Derek’s smile faltered. “ _Do you not want me to sit here?_ ” 

Stiles searched Derek’s face for some sign of motive or indication that this was a joke. He looked over at where Derek normally sat—and of course he’d know where the guy sat; why wouldn’t he, it’s not a big deal—and a couple of the senior lacrosse team members glanced over at the two of them, but there was no sense of an impending prank or punch line of a joke. 

“ _Do you want to sit here?_ ” he asked in lieu of answering Derek’s question. 

“ _Of course._ ” 

Stiles closed his mouth in shock and was slightly surprised by the presence of apple in it. _Well, then…_

“ _Don’t you want to sit with Erica_?” 

“ _No. She wants to do her project on…_ How do you sign ‘makeup’?”

Stiles demonstrated the sign, brushing his fingers under his eyes, and Derek smiled and made the sign for _of course_ again. 

Stiles chuckled, and a comfortable silence fell as they dug into their not-so-delicious cafeteria lunches. 

 

******************

 

Stiles walked up the long path to Derek’s house—more of a manor, really—favouring his right side. That had been a fun interaction that Tuesday morning. Matt had dragged him into a supply closet and punched him hard and fast in the right ribs, jabbing multiple times, then quickly left without saying a word. Stiles had been late to his first class because it had taken him a while to realise that the closet door was locked from the inside, not the out. 

He looked over the home, and he could tell that it was an old house, even though it still looked nice. It just had that feel to it. There was ivy crawling up a trellis on the side he could see; some of it wrapped around the porch banister. He stopped for a moment on the porch—it had been an incredibly long walk from his house to here; why had he never learned to ride a bike when he was a kid?!—before ringing the doorbell. 

He had opted to wear just a nice T-shirt under his coat, no comic book characters or superheroes or anything, and his second nicest pair of jeans (since he had had to throw away his nicest after the balloon incident). He hoped it was fine. Of course it would be. He was only here to help Derek study, not to look like America’s Next Top Model. He shifted his backpack, which contained the AP history text book along with several other items that might become useful. 

The door swung open to reveal Derek wearing a button-down shirt and slim jeans. Incredibly slim jeans. Was he actually wearing anything or were those painted on? 

And way to make a guy feel underdressed in three-point-two seconds. Stiles’ mouth went dry as he worked his eyes back up to Derek’s face—good thing he doesn’t speak, right?—which had a smile spreading that mouth and showing off those bunny teeth. 

Derek’s smile grew when Stiles’ eyes latched onto his. He gestured him inside. Derek closed the door and paused before a doorway that led to what must be a living room. A girl sat on the couch, watching some cooking programme on the TV. 

“ _This is my sister, Cora,_ ” Derek signed to him.

Cora looked up at their entrance. Her face darkened when she saw Stiles. _Whoa, there._ He had never even personally met her. He knew she was a freshman; he had seen her around, anyway, but he definitely didn’t know she was Derek Hale’s sister. 

He noticed that she, interestingly, had on a _Big Bang Theory_ shirt, with all the characters from the show. It was probably the same image from one of their TV-on-DVD covers, but it was still pretty cool. 

Hoping Derek would translate, Stiles signed, “ _I like your shirt. Who is your favourite?_ ” 

Derek did translate—Stiles saw his lips moving as he glanced up at him—but all Cora did was huff, roll her eyes, and look back at the television. 

Stiles’ natural instinct was turn away, flushing beet red in embarrassment. Derek glanced at him and took a step further into the living room, probably to have words with his sister. That would help nothing, nothing at all, so Stiles grabbed his arm and shook his head. He pointed to the stairs, asking without words or signs, if they could just get on with things. 

Derek looked at Stiles’ hand on his arm, then up at Stiles’ still-flushed face, though the heat was receding. He took a deep breath and nodded. He grabbed his bag that was on the floor near the front door and started his ascent. Stiles dutifully followed, looking back at Cora whose eyes were still glued to the screen. 

He frowned and nearly missed a step, catching himself on the banister, but not before Derek’s hand came out of nowhere to grab his other hand. His mind supplied that it would have been a futile effort, just due to their relative positions—his face would have still probably smashed into the stairs had he not caught onto the banister—but he still blushed at the fact their hands were clasped. 

Stiles righted himself; Derek hadn’t let go. Stiles cleared his throat and carefully loosened his still-tight grip on Derek’s hand. Derek blushed—prettily, of course, what else? The guy was going to give him a major complex—and began climbing the stairs again. 

Finally Derek opened the door to a large-ish room, replete with the colour green. The walls were a faint, dark green. There was a green accent pillow and green throw blanket on the bed. There was even a green lamp on the desk! It was spotless, not that Stiles expected any differently. A small, envious part of him hoped that it was only this way because he had been expecting company. 

“Great room you’ve got here,” Stiles said quietly. 

Derek turned from closing the door and mock gasped, clutching a hand to his chest. “’Lo! It speaks!” 

“Your accent is terrible, by the way.” Stiles guessed at Derek's use of an English inflection and was rewarded with that affectionate smile back on Derek’s face. “And you insult the boy who just gave you a compliment?” 

Derek bowed and then looked up at him through his lashes as he was bent over. “Indeed, kind sir. I offer thee my sincerest apologies.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes and pushed at Derek’s shoulders, who promptly toppled over in a fit of laughter. 

“You’re an idiot, Derek.” 

Stiles looked over the room once more. “So, let’s get started, yeah? Where at? The floor, desk…” There was a pause that he didn’t mean to accentuate. “…or bed?” 

He chanced a look at Derek, whose face fortunately didn’t show any signs of noticing the brief pause, and who was opening his mouth to talk. 

"Well, I’m a bit hungry, so I think I’ll get us some snacks. Do you want anything to drink or anything specific?” 

“No, I’m fine. I’ll just set up camp in here.” Stiles cringed a little at the thought of potentially passing Cora; he wasn’t sure where their kitchen was. 

Derek smiled at him again and left the room. Stiles sat down on the floor and dragged the two backpacks toward him. He poured out his backpack and arranged the books around him. He placed the flashcards on the nightstand beside the bed and brought out a notebook and some pens and highlighters. When that was finished, he unzipped Derek’s backpack, overcoming the small twinge he had about opening the other guy’s stuff with a small shrug, and laid out his book and notes as well.

With that complete, he stood up with a stretch—perhaps sitting on the floor wasn’t the best of ideas; maybe he’d move the stuff to the bed…no, the desk—and a groan as his sore muscles were pulled. 

Stiles turned to the mirror on Derek’s closet door and lifted his shirt. He hadn’t really had a chance to see what kind of damage Matt had left him with. Stiles sucked in a breath at the sight of the mass of bruises that used to be his side. Dark blues, blacks and purples mottled his skin to the point that it no longer looked like skin. He gingerly touched one and let out a gasp, both at the cold fingertip and at the surprising amount of tenderness. 

In the reflection, he saw the door opening and quickly shoved the shirt down, turning to meet Derek...who wasn’t Derek. The door fully opened and there stood a tall, darkly beautiful woman, with long black hair. She couldn’t be anyone other than Derek’s mother, which— 

_Oh, my God. Was my shirt down before she came in? She didn’t see, did she? There’s no way she did. No way._

There was a firm set to her mouth that Stiles couldn’t identify before she smiled at him and surprised him with signing. “ My name is Talia Hale, Derek’s mother. ” 

“ _Hi… I’m Stiles._ ” _She knows sign language?!_

Then she spoke aloud. “Sorry, but that’s all Derek would teach me. But he says you’re great at following along without sign language. I think the words he used were brilliant and amazing.” 

_Gods above and below, Derek talks about me with his_ mother? 

Talia took a step inside the room and Stiles fought every instinct he had that told him to take a step or two back. He wasn’t exactly frightened of this woman, but something about her was intimidating. He knew that she was a councilwoman, so maybe it was just this air of power that she naturally held. Town politics weren’t that exciting, he assumed, but she apparently took to it like a bird took to the sky. 

She moved further inside, toward the pile of books and papers he had in a semi-circle on the floor, and Stiles felt justified in taking a step around them, just to allow her more room. Stiles had thought that Mrs McCall could be intimidating, but she could take lessons from this woman. At least Stiles knew that Mrs McCall liked—or maybe more accurately, tolerated—Stiles. He definitely couldn’t be sure about Mrs Hale. 

“I just wanted to welcome you to the family home. It’s been in our family for over a hundred years, did you know? The Hales helped found Beacon Hills.” 

Stiles just nodded helplessly. What did she want? Did she want him to speak? But he didn’t want to! It was different around Derek… 

Talia gave him a calculating look, and after it felt like he had been emptied out and scooped back up—Stiles suspected that she now knew the colour of his underwear—she nodded to herself. 

“I’m sure Derek will be back up soon. He was rummaging around in the kitchen last I saw. Apparently he thinks you’re going to want a mélange of foods to choose from.” She gave him another smile, smaller this time, more…knowing…and left the room, leaving the door open. 

Had she planned it this way? Had she waited for Derek to go downstairs before she…what? Before she pounced on Stiles like a hidden predator? No way. It had to be coincidence. She was just curious to see his new friend or something. 

Stiles took a seat on the floor again as Derek appeared in the doorway, arms laden with cans of soda, boxes of different snacks, and a smile on his face. A smile that melted into a confused frown when he realised that he went through an already open door. 

“Did you…?” He gestured to the door with his elbow before tossing the loot on his bed. 

“What? You don’t want anyone to see me? Ashamed of your new friend?” Stiles joked with a smile. 

Derek’s eyes widened in alarm as he took a seat on the floor across from Stiles. He raised his hands in what Stiles assumed to be a soothing gesture. “What? No! Of course not! I just—” 

Stiles cut him off with a laugh. “Relax, man. I’m only joking.” 

He eyed a can of Dr. Pepper. Derek noticed, laughed and tossed him one. 

“Eh, I can’t ever say no to my love for Dr. Pepper. It’s everlasting, dude.” 

Derek just laughed again as Stiles popped the tab of his soda and took a drink. 

“But no, I didn’t open the door. Your mom popped in to say hello,” he said while Derek did the same with a bottle of water—again with the inferiority complex; there was zero fat on this guy, and now Stiles knew why: he never partook in any snacking! Well, Stiles would just have to change that. 

_You can’t have a study marathon without snackage._

Derek surprised him by choking on his water when he mentioned Talia. Then he covered his face with his hands. Stiles saw his chin moving, like he was speaking, but his entire face was smothered by those giant, ridiculous hands. 

So Stiles wrapped his hands around Derek’s wrists and pulled until his eyes were uncovered. “Did you say something?”

Derek gave a sheepish smile and nodded. “I just said that I’m sorry. Did she interrogate you? Did she embarrass you by trying to use ASL? I’m so sorry.” 

Stiles giggled, just flat-out giggled. “No… Well, she did use sign language, but it wasn’t embarrassing. She used what little signs that you apparently taught her well.” 

It was Derek’s turn to flush a deep red, and he buried his face in his hands again. Stiles bit back a laugh. 

Derek revealed his mouth and said, “I admit to teaching her some signs, but it was…” There was a pause. “For an assignment for the seminar. Morrell wanted us to be able to teach others the basics of introduction and the alphabet.” 

“…right. Well, you did a very good job. She spelled her name perfectly.” Stiles tried to keep the laughter from his voice, but he wasn’t sure if he completely succeeded, especially when Derek brought his hands back down to his lap, face still bright red, and full on glared at Stiles. 

“Shall we get started?” Stiles gestured to the array of books and notes that he had spread out before them and settled against the side of the bed in an attempt to find comfort. Seriously, the floor thing was a bad idea from the start. 

Derek’s shoulders slumped and he nodded in the saddest—but not the most adorable—way possible. 

“We’re doing the Reformation, right?” At Derek’s slight nod and cringe, Stiles continued, “Tell me what you know about Luther, his Ninety-Five Theses and the Council of Trent…” 

****************** 

It turned out that Derek was good—if not great—at the general themes and ideas surrounding the Reformation of the 16th Century; he was just fuzzy on the details, especially concerning the dates. An easy fix, and that’s the reason he made and brought the flashcards. The small whiteboard with markers wasn’t a bad touch either. 

Derek was studying Stiles’ flashcards—“Well, they’re yours now, Derek; I made them for you.” “Stiles, you really shouldn’t have! There’s like a hundred of them. I can’t keep these.” “Too bad.”—while Stiles explored the rest of Derek’s room. 

He would occasionally call out names, events or dates as he was looking over some memento of Derek’s and then look back at Derek who would be holding aloft the whiteboard with what he hoped was the right answer scrawling on it—in green ink, of course. 

Stiles whirled around with a baseball clutched in his hand; it looked old and worn. “Did you know that Martin Luther didn’t nail his 95 Theses to the door of the Church of Wittenberg like all the art depicts? He actually posted it on the notice board where it blended with all the other papers put there.” 

Derek looked up at him with that smile again—the one that made the menisci of Stiles’ knees turn to jelly and threaten to fell him to the ground. He scribbled, _Only you would know something like that_ , if scribble could mean written perfectly, just quickly, on the board. 

Stiles laughed. “What? It could be on the exam,” he scoffed, turning to hide the blush and to place the baseball back on its small, wooden stand. 

When Stiles had first started looking through his things, Derek had watched him with wide eyes, but hadn't said a word. He had finally relaxed when it was obvious that Stiles wasn't going to say anything bad. In fact, Stiles himself had remained silent unless it was something that really piqued his interest or was just simply cool. He hadn't been able to contain his awe at Derek's sizeable music collection. The boy even had it organised by genre, not just by artist! (He had even asked to borrow a couple of the albums that he didn't already own, to which he hadn't really been expecting Derek to readily agree.) 

Stiles took a seat in the swivel chair—surprisingly not green—and rolled it over to Derek, who had positioned himself on the bed. He was lying back against his pillows, holding the flashcards above his head as he mumbled to himself. His shirt had hiked up during his tenure on the bed, showing skin above the waist of his jeans and what looked like a very well developed… 

To distract himself, Stiles stole one of the Cheez-Its that were loosely held in Derek’s other hand as it laid on the comforter, bordered in green, and he popped it in his mouth. Derek jumped and crushed the three remaining crackers in his hand.

Derek looked over at him, embarrassment written all over his face, and gave him a small smile. His eyebrows shot up into his forehead at Stiles’ proximity. 

"I think it’s time I pay that explanation that I owe.” 

Those expressive eyebrows surprised Stiles by climbing even further as Derek sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the bed. They were so close that their knees were brushing, but neither of them moved. 

“Okay. But you don’t have to.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles took a deep breath and looked down at his wringing hands in his lap. “I guess I’ll start with the most pathetic—” 

Derek cut him off with a press of his knee, causing Stiles to look up at him. “I doubt that anything you say will be pathetic, so cut that out.” 

The corners of Stiles’ mouth threatened to twitch up as he continued, “Okay, all right. Have it your way. Well, you know how I _can_ talk, but I don’t?” At Derek’s silent nod, he inhaled deeply again. “You might not know this—you were only exposed to a very small preview last Friday night—but I know how to talk. And I did. A lot. I rambled, constantly.” 

Stiles blinked back tears and looked down before Derek could see. “About anything and everything. My favourite was birds when I was a kid. I read any and all books about birds I could get my grubby little hands on. I read other books, too, but birds were my go-to. I could…” Stiles swallowed and clenched his hands into fists to keep from picking at his nails, a nervous habit of his. 

Stiles could easily remember one of the last things his mother had ever said to him. Her wan voice still haunted him in his dreams. _I’m sorry we never got to fly high like that griffin, sweetheart. Promise me you’ll still try. Promise me one day you’ll fly…_

It had been their dream, as a mother and son, to one day get flying lessons, and maybe even become amateur pilots. Now… Stiles didn’t want to finish that thought. Stiles sniffed and cleared his throat, and he felt Derek shift. 

_Oh God, now I’ve made him uncomfortable._

But Derek didn’t move further away from him, like he was scooting backwards on the bed. Their legs were now slotted together instead of just the knees touching. 

“I could probably still tell you twenty different facts you didn’t know and don’t want to know, ever, about birds. And that’s not the point. Or maybe it really is the point.” Stiles gave a short, wet laugh that was cut off as Derek placed a hand on his knee, but Stiles refused to look up. He quickly wiped away the tear that escaped down his cheek. 

“I guess that is the point. That I talk a lot. That I ramble—oh, God, I’m doing it now. I’m so sorry. The real point is that I’ve been told that I—that I talk too much. I was the boy who talked too much. Now I’m the boy who doesn’t talk at all.”

Stiles gave another laugh, bitter and bordering on hysteria. “Now I sound like I’m ripping off J.K. Rowling. Which, if there’s anything to rip off, it would be her. She’s a genius. Creating an entire world and culture. Almost a modern day Tolkien, though nothing can top him—” 

Stiles cut himself off, walking the thin line between sanity and hysteria, and he realised that he was rambling. Talking about Tolkien and _The Lord of the Rings,_ really? He risked a glance at Derek and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Derek was looking at him with those oddly, beautifully coloured eyes filled with…pity. It could only be described as pity, Stiles was sure. 

“Anyway, that’s the sad, pathetic Gospel truth,” he finished in a quiet, almost singsong voice. “And ten points to Gryffindor if you catch that reference.” Because what else would Derek be but a brave Gryffindor? 

The hand on his knee squeezed, and Stiles looked up to see a small, sad smile on Derek’s face. The pity that he was certain he saw was gone from Derek’s eyes. 

“ _Hercules,_ " he said. “I have two younger brothers who have discovered the pantheon of Disney rather recently.”

Stiles’ jaw dropped, probably rather unattractively. “You have four siblings?” He knew about Laura; she was basically the goddess of Beacon Hills High—he was fairly certain the ground where she walked was subsequently consecrated as holy. He had met Cora, officially anyway, even though it hadn’t been the best of times or instant friendship between the two of them. 

Derek smiled warmly. “Yeah. Laura, Cora, Elijah and Noah—they’re twins. You could say I’m the odd one out.” He laughed at Stiles’ puzzled frown. 

But then it clicked. “Because of your names!” He grinned. “I could call you Derica. That way you’d match.” 

Derek shoved at Stiles’ other knee with the hand that wasn’t already touching him. “Anyway, what I wanted to say is that what you just told me isn’t pathetic. You’re not pathetic. Whoever told you those things was cruel.” 

Stiles couldn’t help but to smile at Derek’s attempt to cheer him up. “Well, that’s a long list of cruel persons, then. But let’s move on to something else?” 

Derek blinked at Stiles’ abrupt change of pace. “Uh, history or…?” 

“No, I figure I owe you a couple more explanations. You’ve asked me about my signing a lot. And how I already know it.” At Derek’s nod, Stiles said, “Well, it’s a two-fold answer. I can’t really explain one without the other, or if I did, you’d be left with more questions than you started, I think. 

“I was taught ASL by my mother. Well, more accurately, we learned together. We started at a very young age, probably when I was still learning spoken English. That’s why I know it so well; because I learned it hand-in-hand with that. My mom even signed me up for this video pen pal service that was geared for deaf kids. I…I made a really good friend through there. But I haven’t talked to her since…” 

_Since my mom died,_ he was unable to say. The hand squeezed again. 

“Let’s just say I wasn’t a very good friend to her. But then you’re probably thinking, why did we learn ASL?” He glanced up at Derek who was giving him a sheepish smile, telling Stiles that yes, he was thinking that. 

“Well, my parents are carriers for this genetic disease. It’s pretty new; they don’t know much about it. They’re calling it vestibulocochlear necrosis for now. Basically at a young age, you’re supposed to start losing your hearing. Your sensory nerve for hearing and balance dies. The doctors say that there are different variations depending on the affected genes. You can partially lose hearing in one or both ears, or you can totally lose hearing in one or both. 

“Either way, they said in the very few documented cases they’ve seen or read about, it’s supposed to happen young and gradually. My dad had a distant relative with it, so he had both him and his mom tested after I was born. They both tested as positive carriers, so there was a very good chance I would have the disease. They tested me and sure enough… 

“So they prepared. Mom and I learned sign language. It was fun. It was a game between us. Dad didn’t learn because he was too busy at the station, getting ready to run for sheriff—he said he was doing it for his family. But Mom and I had fun using ASL to have secret conversations around him. He would get so frustrated. 

“But around the time that I was supposed to start showing signs of the disease, six or seven, I just…didn’t. And every three months, they’d take me to the doctor—I didn’t know that was different than normal—to test my hearing, and they would say it was completely perfect. They were baffled. 

“My parents were ecstatic, of course. But then they…they made the decision—” Stiles’ voice broke as he choked off at the end. “They decided not to tell me. Mom and Dad—they—it was her wish that I wouldn’t know. So I wouldn’t be scared. They hadn’t told me when we first started learning sign language, so they decided to just keep it to themselves. And I don’t know if I can ever forgive them for that. Which makes me a horrible son, doesn’t it?” 

His voice cracked again. He blinked and felt a few tears fall through his lashes. He sniffed and tried to regain his composure to continue. 

“And then she got sick. Pancreatic cancer. And it was incredibly malignant. It metastasized so quickly… She only had a few months left when they caught it. The doctors say it was asymptomatic early on so it…it was too late. She refused treatment when they said it would only give her…give her a few more months. 

“But she knew what those months would be like. She didn’t want to… She had a cousin who had died of breast cancer, who underwent the treatment. She knew how miserable she’d be.” Stiles took a shaky breath and looked up at Derek, tears filling his eyes and threatening to spill over at any moment. 

“And when she finally passed, I blamed her for so long. She refused to give us more time! How could she do that to us? Willingly take herself away from us when she knew we could have had more time!” His hands clenched into fists in his lap. 

“It took me a long time to forgive her, but eventually I realised what she did for us. She gave us real time. Not time spent in the hospital, watching her waste away. But I guess one of her last wishes to my dad was to keep me safe and happy, because he never told me the secret they had been keeping until it was too late.” 

Stiles bit his lip. He could feel his hands trembling, so he clasped them together. “But I guess I got the worst end of the short stick. I woke up one day in pain. A lot of it. The entire nerve was dying, all of it at once. Both of them. So I completely lost my hearing in the span of a few seconds. One moment I could hear my—my own screams—and the next, I couldn’t. 

A finger gently tapped his knee. Stiles looked up to see Derek asking, “Was your… Your dad, was he…?” 

Stiles looked back down at his lap with a sardonic smile. “No, yeah, man. Luckily he was home. I think he was shouting at me, asking me what was wrong, but obviously I couldn’t hear him. I was clutching my head—” Stiles stopped, cut himself off. “Well, you don’t want to hear all the details. The point is he rushed me to the hospital. They realised I couldn’t hear. They looked at my records, did a few tests, and discovered that both of the nerves were completely dead. 

“And then you saw me the next day, so we’ve come full circle.” Stiles raised his face back to meet Derek’s eyes, heedless of the tears coursing down his face. Eventually, Stiles was able to catch his breath—it felt as though he had run the emotional equivalent of a marathon—and he wiped his face with the back of his hand, which was gross really, but what could he do about it? 

Derek’s face was expressionless, a study in stoicism. He was obviously trying to keep it in check and not let anything show.

Stiles was itching to fill the…silence, for lack of a better term. “Uh… Let’s talk about something else?” 

“ _You talk with me,_ ” Derek signed. 

Stiles smiled at him. He pushed his leg against Derek—since when did that seem natural to do? “That’s different. You’re…different.” 

Derek smiled back, with _that_ smile. “That’s good. You don’t want to be normal.” 

“No, you don’t. Normal is overrated; that’s what I believe.” Stiles chuckled at the ridiculous regression of their conversation. “Your signing is really good now. Not to sound patronising…” 

Derek beamed at him and made a few signs that Stiles thought meant _I like signing,_ but he wasn’t positive. He laughed when he realised that Derek made the wrong sign for “like.” 

Stiles demonstrated the correct way to form the sign, using his middle finger and thumb as opposed to the way that Derek pinched his forefinger and thumb together, on his own chest. Derek stared at him with a confused frown. He must not have seen the difference between the two signs. 

Stiles reached out and wrapped his fingers around Derek’s wrist—they were so close now that it wasn’t very far at all—and used his other hand to push Derek’s arm back to his chest. His very, very firm chest, that was. Stiles pressed Derek’s second finger toward his thumb as he pulled his other hand, and with it, Derek’s arm, away from his chest. 

Recognition slowly dawned on Derek’s face, so he repeated the motion, a little more slowly, a little more delicately. His fingertips were barely resting on Derek’s wrist and his other fingers just touched Derek’s. 

This time when Stiles pulled with his fingers on Derek’s wrist, Derek’s entire body moved forward. Stiles looked up with a confused frown and suddenly Derek was there . 

They were in each other’s space, breathing each other’s air. When Stiles looked up at Derek’s eyes, they were shifting across Stiles’ face—between his eyes, down to his mouth, back to his eyes. They were intensely dark in colour, a deep green, burning into Stiles’ own. 

They were millimetres apart. Stiles’ breath hitched as he did what only seemed natural. Their lips met as he closed the space between them. 

Stiles was definitely not going to be as unoriginal as some of those movies and say that he saw fireworks as they kissed. (His first kiss!) What he did feel was just as intense, though. Warmth spread down his spine; he could feel it in his scalp as it tingled when Derek’s fingers tangled themselves in his hair; he could feel it in his lips as they slid against Derek’s; he could feel it in his legs where they were pressed against the other boy’s; he could feel it in his toes as they curled inside his shoes. 

Stiles slid one hand up to Derek’s neck, pressing his fingertips into the warm skin there; his other hand on Derek’s wrist moved to lace their fingers together. Stiles felt a small vibration in Derek’s neck as he pressed in again with his fingertips.

His mind was cataloguing all of this for later, because right now all he could focus on was Derek’s mouth. His first thought was that his lips were softer than he had imagined they would be. Stiles had always figured that kissing a boy would be rough, like kissing fine sandpaper. But this was so much better. 

Stiles tilted his head to the other side to keep their noses from hitting, and he couldn’t help a small noise that escaped him when he felt Derek’s teeth take his bottom lip between them and tug gently. 

Stiles gasped and pulled back. Derek slowly opened his eyes, revealing blown pupils. Both of them were breathing heavily, but still in each other’s space. And Stiles found himself not bothering to care at all. 

He smiled brightly and Derek answered with one of his own. Stiles leaned in for round two, and suddenly found himself pushed backward, hands shoved back into his lap. 

Stiles blinked and looked around. Derek was no longer on the bed. He was standing in front of the door where Laura was trying to get in. 

Stiles nodded to himself, took a deep breath to try and control his breathing and stood up. He began to gather his things as Derek talked with Laura. When he was finished, he righted himself with his backpack on his back and saw that both Derek and Laura were staring at him. 

“ _I’m sorry. I remembered that I have to be somewhere,_ ” he signed, which wasn’t a lie. 

Derek looked…distraught would be a good term for it, but Stiles didn’t let it affect him—externally at least. Internally, it was a different story. He realised he was probably overreacting; that it was a natural response to a surprise to jump away from someone. 

But the difference laid in the way Derek had pushed Stiles’ hands away from him, rather than simply drop them in shock or surprise. He understood what it meant. 

It meant that Derek wasn’t being truthful to his family. And Stiles didn’t blame him for that. He knew that sometimes a guy just wasn’t ready. But he wasn’t ready to be someone’s secret. 

He gently pushed past the two Hale siblings, descended the stairs and grabbed his coat that Derek had hung up for him near the door. Cora was still in the living room, but Stiles didn’t look to see if she saw him or if she was still watching the cooking channel. He opened the door and made his way outside. 

Once he had closed the door, Stiles paused, rested against it. He tried to catch his breath as his eyes threatened to spill over once more, though for vastly different reasons than before. 

He was five steps from the porch when it started pouring. 

_Of course it would rain on Mom’s birthday,_ he thought as he made his way, soaked, to the cemetery. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few custodial notes: The genetic disease is purely fictional. I made it up. I thought, hey, we can accept werewolves (even in their absence in this fic), we can accept an arbitrary disease, yeah? I took some liberties with the genetics... It ended up--if you're even interested--being a mix between Mendellian inheritance and multifactorial inheritance, which you don't see. It's one or the other. But again, literary license. 
> 
> I also had to cut two scenes because of the length, but one will be addressed in the next chapter, in a roundabout fashion, and the other will be in the next one from Stiles' perspective, so fret not! I will not leave without them written! 
> 
> And as always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing. I look forward to reading and replying to any comments you might have! 
> 
> P.S. Join me on [tumblr](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com)!


	8. Admitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one wherein there are miscommunications.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thank you goes out to all of you who have read, commented or gave kudos to this story. It means the world to me that you've taken the time out of your day(s) to read this, and share this with me. 
> 
> As always, [lunawho47](http://www.lunawho47.tumblr.com) is one of the greatest betas a guy could ever ask for, and I am eternally grateful to consider her as one of my best friends. Always and forever, shade of my heart. 
> 
> A warm welcome is given to [thethronegames](http://www.thethronegames.tumblr.com), a new addition to the team I've compiled for myself. On tumblr, which I recommend you go check out, her interests are varied, but they include Supernatural, Teen Wolf, Doctor Who and, as her URL suggests, Game of Thrones.

It was as though all the air had been scooped from his lungs and the oxygen burned from the room. 

He had basically been shouting at Laura to get out when she got a confused look on her face, but it hadn’t been directed him. Laura was looking behind him. So Derek turned to look and there stood Stiles, with his bag on his back. A quick glance to the floor and bed told Derek that the other boy had packed away all his things—that he was obviously leaving. 

Stiles signed, “ _I’m sorry. I remembered that I have somewhere to be,_ ” and then he walked out of Derek’s room, squeezing between the two Hale siblings. 

Derek waited for the sound of the front door closing before he sunk onto his bed, shoulders slumped. Moments before, he had been floating on clouds, the slide of his lips on Stiles’ making him fly—not that anyone would ever get those descriptions from him before his lips were cold with death. And now, the hollowness in his stomach, the only way he could make sense of it…

The bottom had fallen out of his universe. 

Laura’s hands pried Derek’s away from his face, where he had buried them in order to hide away from the rest of the world—a futile thing to try when his rather overbearing sister was present. 

“Derek, what did you do?” 

“What did _I_ do?” He paused and sighed. “What _did_ I do?” 

“Look, I know I didn’t want to give him the warmest of Hale welcomes because of what he did to you,” Laura said as she sat down on the bed beside Derek. “But I know something was wrong. Did you see his face? There was…” She trailed off, but Derek knew what she was trying to say. 

Stiles’ face had been a mask. There was a moment with a polite smile as he was saying goodbye, but other than that, it had been a trained neutral expression. But Derek had…gotten to know his expressions, for lack of a better term that might make him appear more stalker-ish than he was willing to admit, and behind that mask was something unidentifiable. 

Or, perhaps, something that was too painful to be identified. 

Laura must have seen something on Derek’s face. “Derek, just tell me what happened. Walk me through your…through what happened.” 

Derek was eternally grateful that she hadn’t used any combination of the words “study” or “date,” because if that’s how a date might go with him, he might not ever be able to look Stiles in the eyes again. 

“It was great. I mean, he was helping me study. He made me these—” Derek cut himself off as he jerked his head to look on his bedside table. They were laying there, held together with a binder clip—a green binder clip, no less. 

Derek stood up and picked up the flashcards as though they were made of spun sugar. He slowly sat himself down on the desk chair that Stiles had vacated minutes before. “He made these flashcards. Stiles said he had made them for me. All in one night. And they’re really good. At least, they helped me. I could probably tell you everything you ever wanted to know about the Reformation—”

“Which isn’t much,” Laura cut in with a soft smile. “Just go on, lover boy.” 

Laura laughed at the scowl Derek sent her way, as she crawled to lie down on the bed on her stomach, both for the interruption and for the title he didn’t appreciate. 

“Anyway, he was walking around my room, calling out names—”

“Wait a second. Don’t you mean signing out names?” 

Derek’s nostrils flared. Did she want him to talk, or not? “No, he did as I said. He called out names and dates and events to quiz me.” 

“So…is he a giant faker or something?” 

Sometimes Derek could strangle his sister. 

“Stiles is deaf, not mute, Laurel Leaf. There is a difference, you know.” 

That got him a pillow to the face, knocking the flashcards to the floor. 

“I know that, you big oaf, but from what I hear at school, he doesn’t talk to anyone. Not aloud anyway.” 

“Do you want me to continue, or not? He said talking to me was different.” 

He threw the pillow back onto the bed, purposefully missing Laura’s head—the last thing he wanted right now was to start a pillow fight with his big sister—and picked up the flashcards, subconsciously running his fingers over the inked words. Stiles’ handwriting had been messy when they had passed notes—Derek blushed a little at the thought; passing notes like schoolgirls—but here it was neat, almost painstakingly so. Like Stiles had taken his time with them. Derek might be reading too much into it, but at least a small part of him hoped it was true. 

At Laura’s gesture for him to go on, and not missing the smirk she had on her face at his words and his actions with the notecards, he said, “Then he sat down and started to tell me things. Very…personal things.” 

Laura blurted, “Did he gush out how much he’s been in love with you since he was two years old?” 

Derek jumped up and sat on his sister—to many protests, of course. 

“Get off me, Derek!” Laura kicked her legs to try and unseat him. “Seriously! It was just a joke! I’m becoming a pancake, here! Do you want the rest of the family to eat me for breakfast or something? Get off!” 

Derek eventually complied but not before pressing her head into one of his pillows and mussing up her hair. He sat back down on the chair and feigned a look of innocence, pointedly ignoring Laura’s look of promised vengeance. 

“Don’t be a dolt, Laura. Just things about his family and himself.” Derek cut Laura off as she opened her mouth to speak. “—That do not directly concern me. But then…we—I—he…” Derek stopped, not sure if he wanted to admit this to his sister, of all people. 

“Then what, Derek? What happened?” Laura reached out and shook Derek’s knee. 

Derek looked at his sister, and he saw genuine curiosity on her face, mixed with some small amount of concern. She wanted to know what had happened, but not just because she wanted to tease him about it; Laura just truly wanted to be involved in Derek’s life. 

“We kissed.” 

The noise that came from Laura could not be entirely classified as human. She clapped her hands over her mouth to prevent any more squeals from escaping and the glint in her eyes told Derek that he should probably seek medical help for her sometime soon. 

“Laura! What are you, Cora at a One Direction concert?” 

That got her to drop her hands only to smack him upside the head. 

“How was it? Did he kiss you? Did you kiss him? I can’t believe after all this time… Has he been into you as long as you’ve been into him? Was that what you talked about? How long did it last? Was it great? Was it his first?” 

Derek didn’t think there had been a single breath in between any of those questions. How did girls do that? 

“I think it was a mixture of both. And it would have lasted longer had _someone_ not barged in here!” Derek threw out one of his hands toward the door, frustration rising in him once again. 

Laura glanced at the door. “Do you think that’s why he left? Because I interrupted your sweet lovin’?” 

Derek groaned and put his head in his hands. “I wish you wouldn’t say stuff like that.” 

When he looked up, Laura wasn’t looking at the door anymore. She had a puzzled frown on her face and was looking outside, through his window, where rain was lashing against it like it had done something offensive to the weather. 

“Derek… I didn’t see his Jeep outside when I pulled in from practice,” she said, voice absentminded as though she was lost in thought. 

It didn’t surprise him that she knew what he drove. It wasn’t exactly an inconspicuous vehicle, and Stiles used to talk about it _ad nauseum_ to anybody who’d listen for more than a few seconds. Derek even thought that he remembered Stiles mentioning a name once or twice. What kind of person named their car? 

Though, who was he kidding? The thought just made him smile a little. 

Derek shook his head to bring him back to the present. “Okay… And you’re mentioning this, why?” 

Laura looked at him as though he should be wearing a dunce cap. “You’re kidding.” 

Derek didn’t deign to respond. He just blinked at her. 

“It’s raining. Pouring, really. There was no Jeep in the driveway. Stiles left. Without a car. In the rain. It’s got to be at least a thirty minute walk to his side of town.” 

And now Derek wished he _were_ wearing a dunce cap. “Oh shit!” 

He jumped up and grabbed his leather jacket, fortunately not blushing when he put it on— _that_ would have been difficult to explain. 

“Are—are you going to pick him up?” Laura smiled mischievously. “Are you going to be his knight in shining armour?” 

“Laura, shut up,” Derek snarled out as he grabbed his keys from his desk. 

“I have a serious question for you, Derek. Derek—wait!” She reached out a hand to stop him as he tried to leave without waiting for her to ask anything. 

Derek shoved his hands into his pocket. “What do you want? He’s got to be soaked to the bone and freezing. He just had on a hoodie!” 

“So, are you strictly into dick now?” Laura said with a completely neutral expression. 

Derek felt his jaw drop before it clicked. “Did you seriously just quote _Supernatural_ at me? Sometimes, I can’t help but hope that I’m adopted.” He paused at the doorway,  
remembering something that Laura had said earlier. “And don’t blame Stiles for not showing up last week. He had a really good reason that I might tell you about later.” 

“Along with details about you-know-what!” Laura called as he made his way downstairs. “And take my umbrella; it’s bigger!” 

Derek gritted his teeth at his sister’s motherly antics, but did as he was told since he had been planning on taking an umbrella regardless. He vaguely heard his mother calling his name as he shut the door—asking where he could possibly be going in this weather, no doubt. 

 

**************

 

Derek drove as quickly as he dared in the fading light that diffused through the nearly black rainclouds. He took the most obvious route from his family’s home to the Stilinskis’ house, but he didn’t see a boy in a red hoodie anywhere. 

It wasn’t possible that Stiles could have made it to his house before Derek; he had only spoken with his sister for a few minutes after Stiles had left before they had realised what had happened. But Derek didn’t hesitate pulling into the driveway behind the blue Jeep and vacating the car. 

He popped open Laura’s umbrella—a giant, double canopied monstrosity of a thing—because if he was out in this for more than a moment, he’d be completely soaked. Derek sprinted to the front door to knock on it. He rang the bell for good measure. 

He had texted Stiles while he had pulled out of his own driveway. Derek expected no response if Stiles was still trying to make it home—who would pull out their phone in all this?  
Sheriff Stilinski answered the door in civilian clothes, Derek noticed. He wasn’t sure if he had seen the man in normal clothes before; it was a little unsettling, actually. 

The next thing that Derek saw was the sheriff holding a glass of what looked like a glass of whiskey. And he was swaying slightly as he stood there, holding the door open.  
“Derek Hale! My boy, I didn’t expect to see you here today,” the sheriff slurred. Derek could smell the alcohol on his breath; that definitely wasn’t his first glass. “Is something wrong down at the station?” 

Derek glanced at the man’s clothes again; it didn’t seem as though he was wearing his shoulder harness. Derek didn’t think that the sheriff would ever harm anyone, much less him, but drunken men and guns never mixed well. 

“Uh, no, sir. Nothing is wrong,” Derek said, shuffling his feet. “I was actually wondering if Stiles was home.” 

“I’ve not seen Stiles in several days, son.” The elected officer took a drink from his glass, finishing it off. He glanced at it and grimaced, apparently disappointed that it was empty. 

Derek had a difficult time hiding his shock at the admission. Days? 

“Sometimes that boy…” The sheriff shook his head ruefully. 

Derek didn’t like where he thought that statement might be going, so he interrupted before Sheriff Stilinski could continue. “Do you know where he might be?” 

“I don’t know a lot about my son anymore,” Stiles’ father confessed, anger or frustration slicing through his words. “But we don’t normally spend days like today together.” 

Derek blinked, even more confused. His chest had clenched at the sheriff’s declaration. “Sir?” Derek choked out, throat tight. 

“It’s her birthday,” the older man said before shutting the door in Derek’s face, effectively ending their conversation. 

It took a few moments—Derek was still shocked over the abrupt termination—before he understood whose birthday the sheriff meant. 

And then…

_Oh, God._

 

************************

 

Derek tore down the road that would take him to the cemetery. He knew, the moment that he realised the sheriff had been talking about his wife—Stiles’ mother—that would be where Stiles was. 

Stiles had come over on his mother’s birthday. To help Derek study, of all things. Derek wasn’t sure if it was an attempt to try and push her out of his thoughts—if Derek had served as a distraction; and he didn’t mind, not at all—or if Stiles was just that good of a person, or if it was some combination of the two. 

Derek _ached_ when he thought about Stiles and his loss. He had nothing to compare it to; Derek had no idea how Stiles felt. The only thing Derek had lost as a child was a family pet, and he had been really young; he barely remembered Whiskers—the name had been Laura’s idea at 8 years old—as the family cat. 

Derek parked the Camaro at the gate that led into the cemetery on the outskirts of Beacon Hills. In the pouring rain and gathering darkness, it was an intimidating sight, but he hopped out of the car and grabbed the large umbrella, popping it open as he closed the door. 

The urge to find Stiles, to apologise for not knowing, for not being there when he might need a friend, grew when Derek didn’t immediately spot him from the entrance to the graveyard. Derek had never really been to the cemetery before. His immediately family consisted of everyone in the Hale house plus Uncle Peter, who lived in a loft inside the city’s limits.

Derek walked as quickly as he dared—the cemetery wasn’t lit very well, and in the downpour it was even worse; the rain dimmed the little available light—sloshing through the mud that had become of the once-dirt roads. Derek felt it caking his jeans, but he honestly didn’t care. 

He only wished that he had thought of a torch. Derek slowed down as he traversed the different rows of tombstones and gravesites. He tried to avoid walking directly over where there was someone buried; it gave him the chills if he thought about it. Surely it was sacrilege to walk over someone’s final resting spot. 

The anxiety that had his stomach in a vice and his heart in irons increased as he still couldn’t find Stiles. Was he wrong? Was Stiles not actually here? He was nearing the end of the cemetery. 

Derek rounded a grouping of tall, heavily time-worn headstones, and there he was. Stiles was sat on the ground in front of a smaller, marble stone. From what Derek could tell, Stiles was completely soaked; his red hoodie looked shockingly like blood, its colour deepened from being wet. 

Derek’s gut wrenched when he noticed that Stiles was signing at the grave marker. Stiles’ hands were shaking, that much Derek could see, though the rain and distance made it impossible for him to discern individual words. 

When Derek discovered how to breathe again, he stepped forward until he was near enough to Stiles that his umbrella covered him. It took a few moments for the boy—who seemed very small in that moment, hunched over as he was, speaking to his mother at her gravesite—to realise that the rain was no longer falling on him. 

Derek was easily able to tell, now that he was closer, that sobs were crashing through Stiles’ body, shaking him back and forth, just like the wind ripped through the trees nearby. Stiles turned and looked up at Derek, eyes huge and puffy from crying, but looking wholly unsurprised to see Derek standing there. 

Derek knelt down beside his—friend, his rational brain supplied before anything else could be slipped in there—beside him. “Come on, Stiles. Let’s get you out of this rain.”  
He let Derek place his arm around Stiles’ waist and lift. Stiles didn’t resist, and neither did he act like dead weight. He came willingly and he was apparently completely coherent as they began the trek back to Derek’s car. 

Stiles stumbled a little as he looked behind him to glance at the site once more, and if he leaned more fully into Derek’s side after he caught his balance, Derek didn’t mind.  
“It’s her birthday.” 

“ _I know._ ” 

Derek’s heart stuttered at Stiles’ next words. 

“I didn’t forget. I wanted to help you study.” Stiles sniffed and wiped at his eyes, carefully not looking at Derek. “I didn’t forget…” 

Derek repeated his signs, not knowing if Stiles was paying attention to his hands at all, and not really caring. He needed to let him know that he was listening, that he understood. 

They finally reached Derek’s black Camaro, parked near a light in front of the cemetery’s gate. Stiles stopped abruptly, causing Derek to whirl around and stand in front of the boy; his arm was still wrapped around Stiles’ waist. 

Stiles’ bottom lip quivered as he seemed to struggle internally—against bad memories, more tears, good memories, or some combination, Derek wasn’t sure. He just knew that everything Stiles was doing screamed of not wanting to go home (or at the very least, not wanting to leave). But Derek needed to get him into the car; he was shivering now. 

Suddenly, Stiles threw himself at Derek, and they nearly fell to the ground as he squeezed Derek tight. Derek returned the favour, knowing what it was like to just need something to hold on to, sometimes. 

When Stiles finally loosened his grip on Derek, he reached behind him to open the passenger door of his car and gently ushered the other boy into it. There was a feeble protest from Stiles that he was soaking wet and would therefore ruin the seats of this gorgeous car, but Derek just shook his head and sprinted to the other side, closing the umbrella to jump in. He started the car to get the heater going, but he didn’t put it in drive just yet. Stiles just didn’t seem…ready. 

Derek looked over at Stiles after turning off the radio and fiddling with the environmental controls for a while to keep himself from staring at the boy seated next to him. Stiles was staring at him with wide doe eyes, though his bottom lip had stopped trembling; he still seemed _fragile_ , for lack of a better term. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

The very minimal shake of Stiles’ head was answer enough. _Okay, then. Plan B it is._

“Do you want to talk about…what happened at my house?” 

A mask slid over Stiles’ features before he turned his head to look out the window, though Derek was certain that he could only see sheets of rain sluicing against the glass. 

“I know exactly what happened. There’s nothing to talk about. Can you take me home, please?” 

Derek’s jaw dropped open in shock, and he closed it in a confused frown. He wasn’t sure what just happened here, but he wouldn’t push it. 

_For now…_

 

************************

 

Derek pulled into the Stilinskis’ drive and put the car in park, but Stiles didn’t immediately hop out like he expected. He still had his head leant against the window. At first Derek thought he might be asleep, but then he saw the slope of his shoulders tremble, and he realised…

 _Oh, God, he’s crying again._ Derek wondered if it was possible to experience his heart shattering more than once in a day. 

Derek considered placing a hand on the quivering shoulder closest to him, but decided against it, figuring that the other boy would just shrug out of any attempt at a comforting touch. 

Instead, he popped open his door and deployed the umbrella, sprinting over to the other side of the vehicle to open Stiles’ door for him—like this was the end to a date instead of the end to an emotionally draining day for the both of them, if for entirely different reasons. 

Stiles vacated the car, if less than gracefully, but in much the same manner that Derek had seen him exit his own Jeep—as though he’d never learned properly how to do it. It was something that was so very Stiles, one of the innumerable reasons that Derek was enamoured with the guy, that Derek had a difficult time stifling a smile. He was certain it wouldn’t be appreciated, and he definitely didn’t feel confident enough trying to explain any rational thought behind it. 

So Derek started walking toward Stiles’ front door, and Stiles followed under the protection of the umbrella. When they reached the threshold, Derek expected Stiles to open the door or pull out a key to unlock it; instead, he just stood there. Derek then heard a mumbled jumble of words. 

“I forgot my keys.” 

Derek blinked and slowly brought up a hand to knock on the door. There was a rustle, a slamming noise, and then a snick as the deadbolt was retracted. Sheriff Stilinski answered the door, looking even more disheveled than before, this time without a glass in his hand. 

The man opened the door a little wide, and Derek saw a completely empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside the recliner. Derek glanced over at Stiles and noticed that he was studying his father’s face, wincing at whatever he found there—in disappointment or guilt or some other emotion that Derek couldn’t ascertain.

“Good job on finding Stiles, son,” the sheriff said, clapping a hand on Derek’s shoulder, swaying as he brought it back to his side. 

Derek didn’t miss the full-body flinch that Stiles gave at the man’s words. In the next moment, Stiles pushed by his father and entered the house without a single backwards glance. 

“Well, thanks for bringing him home, Derek. I’ll see you at the station.” The sheriff wiped a hand over his face as he shut the door. 

Derek stood there for a while, like an idiot, letting the rain pelt him because his grip had slackened and the umbrella had tilted. Was Stiles angry with him? Had he actually done something? 

Everything had been bliss and then it had all gone to hell in a hand basket, as his grandmother was wont to say. He didn’t know what was going on, but he definitely wasn’t going to let it go, either. If Stiles was mad at him, if he had done something—hell, if Stiles just didn’t want to talk to him anymore—Derek deserved to know, right? 

Derek climbed into his car, basically soaking wet from his time spent in front of the door, hugging Stiles and helping him to the car, and he winced at the uncomfortable heaviness of his clothes. 

Derek glanced up at the second storey as he drove by and almost failed to notice the flicker of the blinds at one of the lit windows, as though someone had been standing there and had moved away quickly. 

He tapped out a quick message as he was sat stopped at the nearest intersection. He hit send, though he expected no reply (and didn’t get one, predictably).

_[Message to: Stiles Stilinski]_   
_Please let me know if you need anything. Good night, Stiles._   
_[Today, 21.15]_

************************

 

Derek let out a huff of air as he closed the door to his house, squelching out of his drenched shoes and hanging up his keys. He peeled off his socks to avoid leaving extra water marks on the floor. 

He put one foot on the bottom stair as a lamp clicked on in the living room where Cora had been earlier that afternoon. It was his mother, of course. 

“You have _got_ to stop doing that, Ma,” Derek admonished breathlessly. His heart had jumped into his throat as the light had flashed into existence. 

“And just where have you been, Derek Alexander Hale?” Talia’s voice brooked no arguments or nonsense. 

_Ah, so the full name has come out._

“I was with Stiles, Mom.” 

Something flickered across Talia’s face before her expression softened. “And apparently neither of you knows how to work an umbrella.” 

“I guess not. He was…” Derek hesitated, not sure how much of Stiles’ story he should share with his mother. “It’s his mother’s birthday today.” 

“Oh, Derek,” his mother said, stepping forward to give her son a hug, as though he were the one needing comfort on a day like today. 

It only lasted a moment before Talia was pulling away with a grimace on her face, clicking her tongue at the state of Derek’s clothes. 

Derek climbed another step when his mother said, “Derek…” 

The slight uncertainty in her voice that gave rise to a tiny tremor made him pause and turn back to Talia. 

“Is Stiles… Is he seeing anybody?” 

Derek felt his spine stiffen. He thought about jokingly asking her if she was interested or something, but with the look on her face, and the fact that he might break down in hysterics during or after the question, he refrained. 

“Uh—I—no, I don’t think so.” He had to swallow to get the words out, not blinking as he watched her face for any clue as to where this was going. 

There was absolutely no way that she knew about this afternoon—not unless Laura had told her, and he was under the belief that she wouldn’t have done—so why would she ask something like that? Did she suspect? Derek didn’t think so. And it wasn’t that he wanted to keep things from her; he wanted to talk to his mom about this. He used to talk to his mom about everything. But he didn’t know what she or anyone but Laura would be like when he told them. There was no one in his family like him (that he knew of, anyway). He just wasn’t ready. 

A thought tickled at the back of his mind, like something should be slotting in place for him, the final piece to a puzzle, but it was washed away with Talia’s next question. 

“And his father is the sheriff, right?” 

“Ma, you’re a councilwoman; I’m fairly certain you knew the answer to that question before you asked me.” 

“What’s he like at work, at the station? Does he—is he angry a lot?” 

Derek couldn’t even begin to imagine the confused look his face was making at her line of questioning. 

“No, of course not. I mean, he might get ticked off from time to time; but who doesn’t get angry when the copier jams for the fiftieth time that month.” 

Talia hummed at his response, and Derek couldn’t help but blurt out, “Why? What’s this about, Mom?” 

“It’s nothing, honey. I just thought…” Talia’s brow creased in thought. “It’s nothing. Are you going to bed? Throw your clothes over the shower so they don’t make a spot, if you please.” 

And with that she wandered off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving behind a bewildered Derek. 

His phone buzzed in his hand, where he’d been clutching it this entire time, with a message from his sister, stating that he’s been home for fifteen minutes already and for him to get his ass upstairs so that he could dish already. 

It buzzed again, and Derek was going to shout for her to find some patience before he noticed who had sent the message.

_[Message from: Stiles Stilinski]_   
_I know this is totally last minute, but it looks like it’s gonna rain all day tomorrow, too… So could you give me a lift to school? My dad has to work early tomorrow. I could give you gas money. And…I’m sorry._   
_[Today, 21.48]_

Derek smiled, grinned really, thinking that things might be looking up again. He replied that it wouldn’t be a problem and gas money was a nonissue and asked if seven thirty was okay. 

His good mood didn’t even dissipate when he walked into his room and Laura asked why the hell he was grinning. It was a pretty good end to a pretty weird day. 

 

************************

 

“So, look,” Stiles said as he slung his bag in the backseat and swung himself down into the Camaro. He handed Derek a packet of car fragrances, the kind that were placed under the seats in order to permeate the interior of the car. “I was kind of a dick last night, and this was the only thing I could come up with at short notice to give you. It’s lame, I know. But it’s the thought that counts, right?” His eyes widened, that Derek could see from his profile—the boy wasn’t looking at him for some reason. “Not that I think your car smells, no; I had them and was gonna use them for Roscoe—my Jeep; yes, I named him, you can shut up—but now I’m not allowed to drive, yet, anyway. So I thought that a gift would kinda get me started on making it up to you. And helping to prove that I’m not always a jerk.” 

Did Stiles even breathe during that speech? More importantly, had he rehearsed it? Derek doesn’t think he’s ever said that much in one go before, himself. It looked a little painful. Not that he minded Stiles’ talking—quite the opposite, in fact. 

Derek smiled, though Stiles still wasn’t looking at him, and took the proffered gift. It was thoughtful. And it did smell a little weird after being wet. He popped them open and stuck one under his seat. 

Derek turned back to the other boy and saw that he was smiling at Derek’s actions. 

“I really am sorry, dude. I wasn’t in a good headspace, and you were being this really amazing—uh, friend, and I’m just sucky, I know.”

“ _I understand. It’s okay. Thank you for the gift._ ” Derek’s grin widened. He just couldn’t help it. Looking at Stiles just… Well, it made him happy. So why shouldn’t he grin? 

He thought about reaching for Stiles’ hand—it looked cold, really—as he pulled out of the driveway, but he wanted to find out what Stiles thought he knew had happened yesterday. And he definitely was going to find out; he just didn’t think the car was an appropriate place for that conversation to happen. Derek wanted to be more face-to-face with Stiles when it happened. 

Laura had said last night that she had an idea as to what Stiles was thinking, but she had also said that it would be better coming from him, and that she didn’t want to start making any sort of assumptions, just in case she was wrong. At which point, Derek had promptly kicked her out of his room, fortunately not having “dished” anything about the kiss—the way Laura had said it, there were capital letters involved, but Derek didn’t feel like being cheesy about it—after they had talked about what happened at the cemetery and later. 

The drive to school was done in comfortable silence—comfortable for Derek, anyway. He hoped it wasn’t awkward for Stiles. He was looking out the window again as the rain fell against it, much lighter than it had been last night, but still would have made walking to school quite unenjoyable. Stiles didn’t look so sad that it made Derek’s heart ache, and he didn’t have the urge to gather the guy in his arms and just hold him until the pain went away. 

_I wonder if he would have let me…_

 

************************

 

The next day, Stiles wasn’t waiting by his front door like day previous. It wasn’t raining anymore—it had stopped sometime midday the day before—so Derek walked up to it and rang the bell. Stiles had mentioned at some point a day earlier that his doorbell was fancy and had a camera that would tell his phone who was there; he bent down and smiled cheekily. At the time, Derek hadn’t even wondered how Stiles had known someone was at the door when he had needed papers signed by his dad. It had completely slipped his mind from shock at even seeing Stiles. 

After a few moments, he was about to ring again when he noticed that the door wasn’t shut properly. It was mostly closed, but not completely, as though someone had been in an extreme hurry on their way out. 

_Maybe he decided to walk?_ Derek wondered to himself. But that wasn’t likely; he had asked Stiles if he wanted another ride, had insisted on it, basically, and though Stiles had given protests about it being much too far out of his way, he had finally fallen for Derek’s charm—or that’s how the scene had played out in his own mind, anyway.  
Derek bit his lip in consideration for a moment before pushing open the door. He looked at the deadbolt, and there were scratches on its surface that didn’t exactly appear to have been caused by normal wear and tear. Someone had picked this lock.

Fear bloomed inside Derek’s chest. He called out Stiles’ name—foolishly, chided a small voice in the back of his mind that he rarely listened to—before he could help himself. He didn’t bother shouting for the sheriff; the cruiser was gone again, and Derek remembered him being on early day shifts that week. 

He heard a rustle from upstairs as he was running up the steps, taking them three at a time. Derek burst into Stiles’ room and was glad that he was holding onto the doorknob—his knees almost gave out in relief upon seeing Stiles in his bed—

 _Is that cling wrap?!_

Stiles was completely covered in saran wrap, sheets, comforter and all, and it looked as though it was looped around the bed. The rustling noise had been from him attempting to move and being unable to do. There was even a piece wrapped around his mouth, keeping his head in place and unable to open his jaw. 

Stiles’ eyes were red rimmed and tears were streaming down his face. Derek pulled out his pocket knife and opened it. He cut through the piece around Stiles’ head first—it luckily hadn’t been too close to his nose, so he hadn’t had any issues breathing.

“Who?” he asked when Stiles’ head was free and the boy was looking at him. 

Derek sliced through the plastic along the rest of Stiles’ body, careful to keep far enough away that if either of them moved suddenly, the blade wouldn’t hit him. 

“I…I don’t know.” Once he was completely unbound, Stiles shoved the film and covers off his body and threw himself at Derek, just like he had the other night. “Derek…”

“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Derek whispered as Stiles buried his face in Derek’s neck. It was futile; the boy couldn’t hear him, but as he felt Stiles’ tears on his skin, he thought the words were more for him than Stiles, anyway. He sat them down on the bed. 

Derek pulled away and cupped Stiles’ face with his hands, his thumbs chasing the tears and wiping them away. “You don’t know who did this? I think it’s safe to say it wasn’t you and it wasn’t your dad.” He gave a small smile, trying to bring levity to the situation. 

Stiles gave a wet laugh, and Derek’s heart felt lighter. Stiles was going to be okay. He was safe now, if he had ever been in any real danger. This stank of some dumb joke someone was trying to play—though he couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to go far enough to break into the _sheriff’s_ house in order to pull it off. 

Stiles swallowed before answering him. “No… I’m a pretty heavy sleeper—well, I am now, anyway. I wasn’t always.” His hands were fisted in Derek’s shirt; he released one to rub at Derek’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about that. When I woke up and couldn’t move, I thought—” He choked off there. 

Derek thought he was going to start crying again—and possibly shatter Derek into oblivion—but he must have fought it back down. 

“You thought what, Stiles?” Derek thought it might be a little weird that he was still holding Stiles’ face in his hands, but he didn’t want to lose that sense of contact, so he slid them down his neck to rest at the juncture there. 

“I thought I was paralysed. The doctors were mainly guessing, but they think that since my nerve died so fast in my brain that it could happen to other nerves… At any time.”

“Oh, God,” Derek breathed out. “Are they serious?” 

“They said they’d never seen a case like mine, and they said that it was a very small chance. Like miniscule. Infinitesimal even. That all my other symptoms and tests and things were normal. It all matched the necrosis thing, but they wanted to prepare me for any possibility.” He paused and gave a self-deprecating smile. “It makes every headache a pleasurable experience, I can tell you that much.” 

Derek didn’t say anything; he didn’t trust himself to say anything. He just gathered up all of the plastic film and threw it in the rubbish bin next to the desk. Then he pulled Stiles with him until they were lying down on the bed, facing each other, close enough that their foreheads were almost touching. Stiles didn’t resist, though surprise was a prominent expression on his face. 

“I think someone picked the lock on your front door,” he whispered. Derek wasn’t sure why he said it so softly; the moment felt like it was required. 

“Whoever it was waited for my dad to leave,” Stiles said, just as quietly. 

The way he glanced away made Derek feel as though he was hiding something, that Stiles knew something that Derek didn’t. But he wasn’t going to push it, not after the morning Stiles had. 

Stiles yawned, then whispered, “I really don’t feel like going to school today, but you should go. I am not going to be a bad influence on the captain of the lacrosse team.” He smiled at Derek, who felt his heart flutter. 

_You’d think I’d get used to that, but apparently not._

Derek considered leaving for about half a second before replying, “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay.” 

The way Stiles’ tired face lit up, just a little bit, at that, it must have been the right answer. Then he yawned again, and Derek answered with a small chuckle. 

“You can sleep. It’s okay,” he said softly when Stiles opened his eyes after the third yawn took him.

Derek surprised himself by brushing his knuckles across Stiles’ brow and down the side of his cheek—something his mother used to do that would calm him when he was tired but fighting it as a child. 

Stiles didn’t seem to mind. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, a small smile gracing his face. He must have been exhausted, because the next thing he knew, Derek was hearing quiet snores. Stiles apparently slept with his mouth open, and it was _not_ the cutest thing that Derek had ever seen. 

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” he said to nobody in particular, stretching a little to place a kiss on Stiles’ forehead. 

 

************************

 

A small part of him hoped that Stiles would wake up soon. The soup might get cold, otherwise. Another part of him just hoped that Stiles wouldn’t think it weird that he had gone downstairs and raided his pantry looking for something soothing to make. 

As though summoned, Stiles stretched and said, “Something smells good.” 

When he cracked an eye open, Derek pointed at Stiles’ desk, where he had placed the bowl of chicken noodle soup, which was thankfully still steaming a little. Stiles grinned at Derek and then scampered—there was no other word for the movement—out of the room toward what he could only presume to be the bathroom. 

“Well, this feels domestic,” Stiles said with a laugh as he sat down at his desk and swallowed a spoonful of soup. 

Derek blushed and turned away, shrugging. He looked back at Stiles before saying, “I just thought that you’d be hungry.” 

“Well, good on you for that one. I definitely was. Are you? Did you eat?” 

Derek glanced at the bedside alarm clock; it read eleven in the morning. He technically hadn’t eaten since last night, but he wasn’t really that hungry. He was content to sit and watch Stiles. 

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.” He smiled back at Stiles who happily continued eating his soup. He even made those ridiculous slurping noises that on everybody else Derek would find to be completely annoying, but with Stiles, his opinion changed and it was a whole different story. 

Derek waited for him to finish eating, slouch back on his chair, rub his belly and burp (entirely unapologetic—the guy even smiled at him afterwards, saying something about it being a compliment to the chef) before he said, “I think we need to talk.” 

Stiles grin that had been in place after the last spoonful fell as he searched Derek’s face. Then that damned mask slipped into place, and Derek wanted to reach over there and shake him, as though that might make it fall away. 

Stiles came back over to the bed and resumed the position they had taken before he fell asleep. Their foreheads bumped gently—accidentally or on purpose, Derek didn’t know. 

“Okay,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before opening and looking Derek straight in his. 

“I don’t know what you think—”

Stiles interrupted him before he could finish the sentence, still speaking softly. “You pushed me away. That’s what happened. And it’s okay. I understand. I don’t blame you.” There was no venom in the accusations, only resignation. 

_Oh,_ was the only thought his mind could come up with at that moment. Everything was swept away with Stiles’ next words. 

“I don’t want to be anybody’s secret.” Stiles’ voice cracked. “I—they’ve—secrets aren’t good for me, I’ve learned recently. And I don’t want to be one.

“I get it. You’re the big lacrosse star. You don’t want anyone knowing. And that’s fine. Well, it’s not fine, but it’s understandable. So can we please just drop it?” 

“Stiles,” Derek said, even though the other boy wasn’t looking at him. He touched a finger to Stiles’ jaw and raised it up so that he would look at him. “Do you like me?” 

Stiles was silent for such a long moment that Derek feared for the answer that he would give. 

“‘Don’t forget that I’m just a boy, standing in front of a boy, asking him to like him.’” 

Derek was so startled that he laughed, but he quickly swallowed it when Stiles’ face was shuttered even more as a blush crept up it. “Did you just quote _Notting Hill_ to me?” 

The blush deepened. “Technically, I paraphrased; I modified it just a tad, to fit our current situation.” He sighed, his breath ghosting across Derek’s face. “But my feelings for you don’t matter. They’re a moot point, Derek. I can’t sit in the shadows waiting for you. I don’t want to. Do you think I deserve that?” 

“Your feelings for me—and mine for you—are all that matter. I’m not asking you to wait in the shadows for me, to be a secret; I would never do that. Nobody deserves that, least of all you.” Derek curved his hand around Stiles’ neck again, felt him hum at the contact. “It’s true that I’ve not told anyone about me. But there’s not been anything to tell. I wanted to wait for you. I’ve…” 

Derek stopped, not sure if he should confess this. But at this point, he was all in, so he might as well. “I’ve been waiting for you for over a year now.” 

Stiles’ eyes widened and then his lips were on Derek’s. Derek was so surprised that he didn’t respond, but when he came back to himself, he answered the kiss, sliding his mouth along Stiles’. Stiles brought his bottom lip between his teeth, and it was like he could feel it along every nerve in his body. 

Stiles’ tongue replaced his teeth, swiping at the lip that was buzzing with heat, and Derek couldn’t do anything but open his lips to let Stiles in. It was like he’d never wanted anything more than that, in that moment; his body had never wanted anything more. 

And then Derek was licking into Stiles’ mouth, breathing him in, senses drowning in everything that was Stiles. He chased that taste that could only be him, ignoring everything else—like the lingering taste of the chicken noodle soup, the rational side of his mind gave him, though he didn’t know how it could be functioning. 

Eventually they had to pull back, for practical reasons if nothing else. Stiles lips were red and swollen. He was beautiful in every sense of the word. Both of them were breathing heavily, still in each others' air and space, but Derek didn’t ever want to move. 

But apparently the urge to fill silences could only be fought off for so long, because Stiles eventually broke it. Derek didn’t care. He loved to listen to Stiles. That mouth of his…

“So, I won’t be your secret?” Stiles’ smile was tremulous, scared. 

“Never.” Derek was resolute in his answer, moving his hand up to cup Stiles’ cheek again. He brushed his thumb against where his lips had just been moments ago, where he wouldn’t mind placing them again. “I want to tell my family. And soon.”

A thought occurred to him. “Will you be there with me? When I tell them?” 

Anxiety flooded Stiles’ face, filled his eyes. They searched Derek, and whatever he found there, Stiles’ expression softened, and he said, “Okay.” He smiled, turned his head to press a kiss into Derek’s palm. 

_Okay,_ he repeated in his mind. With Stiles there, he knew he’d be able to do anything, and that it would be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join me on [tumblr](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com) if you haven't already! I'm making cookies! 
> 
> P.S. A special thanks to lunawho47 for the chapter title. I was stuck on this one. =]


	9. Misunderstanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one wherein there are misunderstandings and a metaphorical closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for joining me again! I liked writing this chapter a lot. There's some angst, some new questions, some questions answered, with a bunch of new developments. 
> 
> I'd like to thank [leviathanlost](http://www.leviathanlost.tumblr.com) for his quick help on this chapter tonight. He got it back to me in a jiffy. Check him out on tumblr, if you haven't already. His interests are varied and eccentric, to say the least. 
> 
> One thing I would like to mention: If you've not joined me on [tumblr](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com) yet, now is the time to do so! I've opened up prompts for Sterek or Destiel ficlets until 31 December, and I've promised to get to them all, no matter how long it takes! If you'll check out my [post](http://codarra.tumblr.com/post/69503830223/codarras-follower-surprise), it has all the rules. And hit me up with any questions you might have! 
> 
> Now onto the reading!

Stiles put his books away for his later classes to free up some space in his bag. He brought out a couple of comic books that he normally kept in there, just in case, and walked toward the world history classroom. There was virtually nobody else in the school. Derek had needed to get there earlier than the last two days due to another of the still infrequent lacrosse practices in which he played a crucial role. 

It had been an odd morning. Derek had been a huge grump when he came to pick Stiles up to get to school. They had discussed it sometime last night, that Derek had to come in early, and Stiles had been more than willing to get to school early since it included two bonuses: he didn’t have to walk alone and it gave him a little extra time with Derek. 

“I’ll let you decide which is the better of the two,” Stiles had said to Derek, giving his best attempt at a wink—he had never been good at giving them, and no, he hadn’t spent nearly an entire day (after taking a little too much Adderall) in front of a mirror practicing. 

Derek had responded in a suitable Derek-fashion: furrowing his brow, bringing his majestically expressive eyebrows closer together and rolling his eyes. At which point, Stiles might have dissolved into a fit of laughter—manly laughter, no matter how much Derek might have described them as little, girly giggles. 

But that morning had been incredibly different from last night. Derek had pulled into his drive—Stiles’ father was still on his overnight shift; the guy had only had a few hours off in between his shifts, and it almost made Stiles feel sorry for the guy, almost—but he hadn’t left his car to come to the door and let Stiles know he was there. 

Instead, he had just sat in his car and waited. Stiles finally got worried after the time Derek was supposed to pick him up and had finally looked outside to see Derek’s Camaro idling in his driveway. Stiles had gaped, and then flailed away from the curtain, his hand somehow becoming entangled in the curtain, and of course he had fallen. Hoping against everything that Derek hadn’t seen, Stiles had grabbed his pack and exited (slightly more gracefully) his house. 

He had immediately caught on to Derek’s mood, even before he expertly placed himself in the expensive car (at least compared to his complete zero from the judges for his performance in the house), easily noted from Derek’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, his complete stoic expression—he was staring straight ahead, not paying a whit of attention to Stiles—and the set of his jaw. 

“Uh, hey,” Stiles had offered. His thoughts had immediately fallen into a bad space inside his head. 

Had he done something wrong? Yesterday had gone _really_ well, in Stiles’ opinion. He wasn’t the best of judges, as he had exactly no experience—he had never included kissing Susan Freeman as experience; it had been for a pre-school play, after all. 

Derek had left after school got out, but before Stiles’ dad had the chance to get home, and then had spent the rest of the day and night texting Stiles. Stiles had made sure to save a few of his favourites. 

But then, in the car, something had been off. _Something was still off,_ Stiles thought to himself as he sat down in the library to wait the hour before classes began. 

Derek’s response to Stiles’ greeting had been a tiny, almost imperceptible nod of his head as he shifted into reverse and pulled out of the driveway, as though that type of interaction wasn’t best reserved for passersby on the street or in the hallway, for people he barely knew—definitely not for the guy he’d spent a good portion of Thursday in bed with! 

Not that anything had happened, other than a few stolen moments of lips gently pressing together, in the aforementioned bed. The time had mainly been spent in conversation or just lying there in each other’s company. It had been amazing, really. 

But in those moments it had taken to drive to school, for Derek to drive to school, Stiles could only think about how much the vibe Derek had been giving off felt like regret. Nothing but cold, sickly, gut-wrenching regret. 

Like the time Stiles had noticed a sale on Mallomars—ten boxes for ten bucks, as if he’d been able to overlook that—and had then had the brilliant idea to have a Mallomar and video game marathon. That had been a regrettable decision. His entire weekend had been ruined, and he hadn’t been able to think about eating another Mallomar for at least a month. 

But this was a thousand times worse than that. This was Derek regretting a decision about Stiles. This was him regretting _Stiles_. There wasn’t any other rational explanation to put behind Derek’s behaviour. 

Derek was regretting the decision he had convinced Stiles to make: that they should be together. And it was only a matter of time before he found the words to tell Stiles. Or maybe he wouldn’t tell him. Maybe he’d just let it go and that would be that. 

Stiles had spent the majority of the ride to Beacon Hills High trying to control his breathing, to make certain that it wasn’t too laboured or too rapid. He hadn’t looked at Derek, keeping his gaze trained on the curbs and mailboxes flying by passed the window, and he hadn’t felt Derek’s eyes on him. 

When they had arrived in the parking lot, Stiles had turned to Derek, had opened his mouth, but all that had come out was, “I…” Nothing else. No other syllables would be formed in that moment by Stiles Stilinski, apparently. 

But then Derek had surprised him. He reached a hand over, after unbuckling himself, and curled it around Stiles’ neck, his thumb rubbing on that spot behind Stiles’ ear, that spot that, if he had the ability, would make him purr like a kitten. He’d said, “I’ll see you in class,” and then he was gone. 

That hadn’t felt like regret. That had been nice. So nice that Stiles had spent about five minutes just staring at the space Derek had been occupying before gathering himself up and vacating the car. 

So Stiles sat there, in the library, keeping a cautious eye on the door—he didn’t want another unexpected visitor sneaking up on him—reading his comic book. But there was no way that Stiles could pay attention to anything that Batman was doing in this volume. His thoughts completely revolved around Derek. 

Had that been a goodbye hand-on-neck thing? Stiles hadn’t thought so at the time, but, really, his mind had been slightly short-circuited by the touch at all. So if it was a goodbye touch, what was with the whole “see you in class” thing? Was that just something a guy said to another guy when said first guy was giving the second guy a ride to school, after the second guy had spent the majority of the previous day kissing the first guy? 

Great, now Stiles had a headache on top of worrying about this. Well, whatever it was, whatever Derek was thinking, Stiles wouldn’t blame him. It was _Stiles_ , after all. Derek must have woken up and had properly thought about what he had done and had come to the decision it was all a huge mistake. He just needed to let Stiles know. 

And if it became more difficult to read the comic because the words and images were blurry, well, Stiles’ eyes were just watering a little. 

***********************

Stiles looked up at the clock that hung over the library door—ten minutes to class starting. He needed to get to his locker and put away the comic; he didn’t like putting in in his backpack in case the pages were creased. Those things were expensive. 

Rounding the corner to the hallway that would lead him to his locker, Stiles saw Derek standing there, facing away from him, as though waiting for something. Waiting for Stiles? 

Something light and airy bloomed in Stiles’ chest as he came up behind Derek and wrapped a hand around the other boy’s waist. 

“Hey. How was practice?” Stiles whispered into his ear. 

Derek whipped around, eyes darting away from Stiles’ face and to the hallway behind him. His face was set in a grimace. “What are you doing?” 

Stiles withdrew his arm as though Derek’s body were a brand, searing into his skin. Tears were pinpricks in the corner of his eyes, and he briefly wondered if whatever had happened in his head had also affected his lacrimal glands. 

“I—I’m—yeah—I’ll—in class,” Stiles spluttered out, before turning and running down the hall. He stumbled over nothing, his sense of balance nothing like what it was, and nearly fell; he caught himself on someone’s locker. 

_Well, at least you got your answer,_ a nasty voice in the back of Stiles’ head whispered. 

***********************

Stiles sat on the toilet seat, his backpack between his feet, and tried to focus on his breathing. In and out. In and out. One after the other. He could feel himself on the verge of a panic attack, and he did _not_ need that right then. 

Stiles was nauseated; the room was spinning and it felt as though an iron band was constricting his chest, pushing the air out of him and leaving him unable to catch his breath. 

Stiles tried to focus his vision on the tiles that lined the floor, sight tunnelling due to the blood flow rushing from his head to the core of his body, his rational side whispered. He counted the squares, with their speckles of paint and cracks, and timed his breathing to the counts. 

After what seemed eons, Stiles could feel the attack abating, and he could finally breathe again. And he felt it was safe enough to think about what had just happened. 

If he hadn’t removed his arm as quickly as he had, Derek looked as though he was going to rip it from his body. How had his feelings toward him done such a complete one-eighty in less than a day? Hadn’t Derek said he’d been waiting for over a year? 

Had that been a lie? Was he upset because they hadn’t done more than kiss? Derek hadn’t tried for anything more and neither had Stiles, perfectly content to lie there with him on his bed. Had Derek expected more, though? Was that what this was about? 

A shadow passed across the door to the stall, scattering Stiles’ thoughts. The door banged open. Stiles jumped, nearly falling to the floor from his precarious seat on the toilet, and there stood Daehler, lowering his leg, having kicked in the door. 

Stiles clenched his jaw, refusing to say anything, willing his pulse to calm down. He just couldn’t catch a break. 

“I missed you these last couple days,” Daehler said with a smirk that gave Stiles chills. “I had to skip out on classes, so I’m just gonna have to get creative to make up for it, don’t you think?” 

Stiles kept his mouth shut, knowing that anything he said wouldn’t matter to Daehler and could just provoke him to do worse. Daehler’s smirk grew into a grin that was just shy of crazed and did nothing for Stiles’ pulse. 

“I’m thinking old school; what about you?” 

Stiles didn’t even have time to think of a witty mental reply before Daehler grabbed the front of Stiles’ hoodie and gripped his hair in a fist. Stiles was forced to look Daehler straight in the face, which was entirely too close for his comfort. He was sure that whoever his doctor was in the future would be none too pleased with Stiles’ now chronic elevated blood pressure. 

“Remember how I said I’d get you to talk? Today you won’t get to talk, but I’m sure you’ll make some sort of noise.” Daehler laughed. “Oh, and I don’t think I need to remind you that if you tell anyone… I’ll just let your overly developed imagination fill that in for me.” 

That was all the warning Stiles received before he was driven to his knees by the grip on his hair—never before had he regretted his decision to let it grow out—and he immediately panicked. Daehler wouldn’t make him…do _that_ , would he? But then he was being forced around and was facing the toilet. The fist in his hair forced him to choose between having his hair ripped out of his scalp or becoming rather intimate with the toilet bowl. 

_Oh, God. What is my life?_ Stiles thought as Daehler dunked him in the surprisingly cold water. Stiles struggled, but he knew it was useless. Lacrosse training might have made Stiles lean, but Daehler had at least thirty pounds on him, and it showed in the vice-like grip Daehler had on the back of his neck. 

Then it felt as though his hair was being tugged from his head. Daehler had flushed the toilet. Stiles was actually getting a swirly, like this was 1995 or something. The flowing water streamed up Stiles’ nose and into his mouth as he tried to push up against the hand that held him down. 

The hand yanked the hair on the back of his head, and Stiles spat out the water that was in his mouth, choking on it, coughing it up. Daehler wasn’t done, though, and as soon as the bowl filled back up, he pushed Stiles back down into it, who was still spluttering, trying to get the water out of his eyes. 

Daehler finally let go after what seemed like a century’s worth of dunks. Stiles flopped to the floor next to the toilet and kept coughing weakly, his head turning from side to side. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to go into another public restroom. He thought about laughing, a little in awe at himself at being able to crack a joke (even internally) at a time like this, but his abdomen hurt too much; it was too much effort. 

Daehler had different plans, apparently, and hauled him up, tangling his fist in the neck of Stiles’ sopping wet t-shirt. Daehler brought him up close, and Stiles wiped some of the water from his face. Daehler patted his cheek, then rubbed his hand on a dry area of Stiles’ shirt.

“Now, I have to go do some things. Remember what I said.” He punched Stiles in the stomach to emphasise his point. 

Which was enough to make Stiles stumble and slip on the puddle of water that had accumulated during his awesome foray into the toilet. He twisted to try and grab onto something to catch himself, just in time for his head to crack against the corner of the sink. 

Stiles collapsed in a dazed heap on the floor, blood trickling from the laceration on his forehead. He lay there for a few minutes, stunned, waiting for his visual acuity to return. Grasping the edge of the sink, he hoisted himself up, almost slipping again on the water that was stained pink by his blood. 

Daehler had left, leaving Stiles there alone on the floor— _Good riddance,_ Stiles thought. Stiles grabbed a paper towel, hissing as he belatedly realised that perhaps a square or two of toilet paper might have been a better choice. It definitely stung as he dabbed away the blood along the cut and his face where it had seeped down. 

Three paper towels later—his short-term memory must have been busted; he never did reach behind him to grab the slightly-softer-than-sandpaper toilet paper—and the cut had finally stopped bleeding. 

Stiles sprinted from the bathroom, sure that he was late to Harris’ class. He skidded to a stop in front of the windows just outside the bathroom that overlooked the school’s parking lot. 

_And what a great view it is. I’m so glad they capitalised on this,_ he quipped to himself. 

Then he saw Daehler exiting the school and heading for a black SUV that definitely wasn’t his. He drove some sort of coupe or something, last Stiles knew. An older man was driving, who looked oddly familiar for some reason. In the passenger seat was a woman, dirty blonde hair in an unfortunate cut, who he had never seen before. Stiles didn’t think that he’d seen the man driving, but maybe he had, at least in passing. Daehler got in the car, and Stiles watched as it peeled out the parking lot. 

_Well, that was odd,_ was all that he could muster. 

Then he looked at the clock, realised he had definitely missed the entirety of world history but still had five minutes to get across the school to Harris’ classroom and nearly tripped over his own two feet trying to get started. 

He turned the corner down the science corridor, and instinct— _Insane and troublesome levels of curiosity,_ his father’s voice provided inside his head (and he tried really hard not to think about the fact that inside his head would be the only place he’d hear his dad’s voice ever again, if it didn’t fade away)—told him to back up and peer around it. He saw Derek, his back to Stiles, talking with Jackson and Danny. He was a little too far to make out everything Jackson was saying, especially with that stupid smirk that was always plastered on the guy’s Ken doll face, but he was able to discern his own surname. 

Why was Jackson talking about him with Derek? Or had Derek been the one to bring up Stiles in conversation? How long had it been going on? Jackson finally stopped talking—and he was always the first to point out how long and often Stiles had spoken, the bastard—and Stiles assumed Derek was saying something because both Jackson and Danny were looking at him, but their mouths weren’t moving. 

The next thing Stiles knew, Jackson and Danny were both laughing. Stiles’ face grew hot with shame. They were laughing at him! Tears pricked at his eyes, but he blinked and swallowed them back. Stiles looked at Danny and realised that Danny’s eyes and flicked up straight at him. 

Stiles noticed Derek beginning to turn, possibly wondering what Danny was looking at, and Stiles whirled around and walked as quickly as he could to the door that led to the chemistry classroom without it being obvious. 

Moments after Stiles had sat down and retrieved his notebook—not that he expected to be able to write anything more than what was visible on the board—students poured into the room. The bell must have rung. 

Stiles contained his surprise to a small twitch in his arm when Derek surprised him by taking the seat next to him. He had come in the back way, and Stiles hadn’t seen him. Stiles refrained from looking at him, for a multitude of reasons. He knew that with that face, those eyes, and those lips, Derek could convince him of anything, and Stiles didn’t want to be persuaded right then. He knew that Derek would home in on Stiles’ face and brand new wound and dripping hair—industrial strength (an oxymoron when it came to public school, apparently) paper towels only did so much. 

And Stiles couldn’t take that. Not right then. Every breath threatened to splinter him into a thousand shards, each one with its own naked nerve ending. He was barely keeping it together. The stress of not talking to his father, the stress of not talking at all, the pain of finding someone who seemed as though he’d be interested in him and his quirks—God knew he had a million of them—and then losing him within a day. It was too much. 

A gentle touch at his shoulder nearly made him jump out of his skin. He chanced a look at Derek, who was staring confused at his now damp hand, but looked quickly away. Stiles took a deep breath, closed his eyes and counted slowly for a few seconds. 

“ _I need to pay attention. I need to pass this class,_ ” Stiles signed and pointed to the front of the room for good measure. 

Derek must have received the hint because no more soft touches came to endanger Stiles’ sanity. And Stiles must have thought too soon, because not even a few minutes later, a piece of paper was slid to his side of the table. 

Stiles huffed out a breath heavily through his nose and grabbed the folded piece and quickly placed into his chemistry book. His curiosity wouldn’t allow him to go for long without reading it, but he could put it off for a while. 

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how he looked at it—Stiles was left in peace for the rest of the lesson. 

***********************

Stiles bolted once he noticed that other students were packing up. He could feel the tension building next to him, and Derek was about to burst before Harris got done talking about stoichiometry. 

He veered off in the direction of his locker, hoping that Derek would head straight for the cafeteria. Stiles quickly switched out his books and grabbed his comic book and then headed for the lunch room. 

Stiles sat down in his normal space, grunting as he pulled off his backpack, the move stretching the muscles in his abdomen. He opened his comic book, flipping to the page where he left off with the Batman and the Joker basically spewing obscenities at one another. 

He jumped—God, would people never stop sneaking up on him?—when Derek appeared out of nowhere and set down a tray of food in front of them both. Stiles blinked and looked up at him. 

“I noticed you didn’t have your lunch bag on you and figured you’d be hungry. You usually are,” Derek said as he sat down next to him. His body language didn’t bode well for whatever conversation was to happen between them in the next few moments. 

After he sat down, Derek hunched over his own tray, using the plastic spork—Beacon Hills had long since given up the antiquated utensils known as the fork and spoon, opting for the future in current plastic ware—to pick at his food. He seemed to be waiting for something. 

_Oh, good. He wants me to open the “Stiles, it was all a mistake” conversation. Fine. Just fine._

He shoved the tray away from him, knocking over the bottle of water into the mashed potatoes, causing the substance they in the kitchens called gravy to flood the rest of the tray. 

“It’s fine, Derek. You don’t have to say anything,” Stiles whispered, not even looking to see if there was anyone close enough to hear him. 

Derek’s head popped up to stare Stiles in the face, a confused look on his face, his eyes searching Stiles’ own. “What—?” 

Stiles turned his attention back to his comic book, not at all hungry, before saying, “I get it. You can go back to your friends now.” 

Suddenly an arm was under his, pulling, and Stiles was hauled to his feet and dragged out of the cafeteria. Luckily Derek’s grip was firm, otherwise Stiles would have fallen on his face twice by the time they reached—the outdoors. 

Brisk winter air clawed at Stiles’ face, and he wished he was wearing more than a thin hooded jacket. Apparently Derek couldn’t even humiliate him where others’ eyes might be present. 

Stiles’ eyes were glued to the ground, and what a lovely concrete it was, until Derek’s hand forced him to look up at the other boy. 

“What the hell is going on?” Derek didn’t look angry. He looked upset and confused. As though… 

As though he honestly had no idea why Stiles was acting this way. He was going to make Stiles spell it out for him—a ploy to make it seem like Stiles’ idea, maybe? 

“You’re going to br—you’re going to tell me it was all a mistake.” Stiles couldn’t bring himself to say “break up;” not when they’d never discussed being in an actual relationship. “That you regret everything.” 

A myriad of expressions crossed Derek’s face—chiefly hurt and sadness. “What are you talking about? No, I’m not.” He shook his head minutely. 

Stiles was dumbfounded. “What? Then what was up this morning, in your car? You didn’t say a word to me.” 

Derek flinched slightly. “Oh, you noticed, huh?” He let go of Stiles’ chin, from where he’d been holding it gently to hold Stiles’ gaze on him, and scratched the back of his head. “I’m sorry. I swear, it wasn’t you. I’m—uh—not much of a morning person, and I’d had a bad one.” 

He turned away from Stiles and walked a few paces before walking back. Stiles leaned against the wall of the school building, trying his damnedest to ignore the cold concrete. 

A sheepish grin was in place on Derek’s lips. “My sisters used up all the hot water before I could take a shower; my brothers kept pestering me to play with them even though I was already running late because my thoughts were a mess and I couldn’t focus on anything. All I kept thinking about was you, Stiles. Though that wasn’t what made it bad. It just made me late.” He grinned at Stiles, who tried not to let his knees melt.

Derek let out a heavy sigh. He was close enough that Stiles felt it flutter across his cheeks. Derek took off his jacket and held it out for Stiles to take. Stiles bit his lip, hesitating, before finally accepting it and draping it across his shoulders. He was shivering. 

Derek touched his still wet hair, his fingers sliding down to gently edge around the cut. “What happened?” 

Stiles ignored the question. “That doesn’t explain your reaction after practice. It was like you’re ashamed of me.” 

Derek looked confused for a moment before recognition bloomed on his face. And then he smiled sadly at Stiles. “You’re deflecting, but I’ll let it go for now. God, I’m an idiot today, aren’t I?” He rubbed his hand over his face, having withdrawn him from Stiles’. “You shocked me, and I reacted badly. Terribly. Awfully. And it’s not that I’m ashamed of you. Never, Stiles. Never.” 

Derek took a deep breath before he continued. “Consider me old-fashioned, I guess, but I want to do this right. I want to tell my parents before it can get back to them. I want to ask your dad.” 

Stiles’ heart clenched. “Just—kiss me.” 

And, bless him, he didn’t even hesitate or look around before cupping Stiles’ frozen face with his cold hands and pressing his lips gently to Stiles’. Finally it felt like Stiles was anchored again, that he was tethered to the earth, no longer in danger of being swept away in a strong wind. The band that had been present on his chest disappeared, and Stiles could _breathe_ again. 

They stayed like that, with their foreheads pressed together, their breath mingling, visible in the air for a second before dissipating. Stiles closed his eyes and just _was_ for a few moments. 

Stiles drew his head back but kept his hands on Derek’s waist, where they had naturally gained purchase. “But what about before chemistry? You—uh—you were talking about me with Whittemore and Danny and you all laughed.” 

Stiles froze, waiting with baited breath as he realised that he had just admitted to spying on Derek. Derek surprised him by laughing into his neck. 

“Jackson and Danny can be world-class douches, so we should just ignore them. Jackson commented on the fact that I’d been hanging out with you lately, and I told them that you’re actually a great guy. Then they laughed; I didn’t. I wanted to punch them.” 

Stiles blushed. “I feel like an idiot now.” 

“No, don’t apologise. When I get in any sort of bad mood, words tend to go by the wayside, and I lose perspective.” Derek brushed his knuckles down Stiles’ cheek. “But now that I’ve been open and honest, it’s your turn. You missed first period.” 

Stiles turned his head away from Derek’s face, not able to look him in the eyes as Matt’s face flashed in his mind, memories of his words playing in his head. “It’s nothing. There was a puddle in the bathroom and I slipped. Fell and hit my head on the sink.” 

Derek made a pained face, commiserating with him. “Let’s get you back inside and get you fed.” 

“I’m not a little old lady, Derek!” Stiles laughed as he shrugged off Derek’s jacket. 

He held out his pinky as he waited for Derek to put it back on. Derek paused, a small, slightly wary smile on his face. 

“Do you promise that’s all today was? A huge misunderstanding that won’t happen again?” 

Derek’s smile grew, and he curled his own smallest finger around Stiles’. He brought it to his lips and kissed the tips. “I promise. In fact, I’d wanted to ask you during the last two classes, but… I want to do it tonight. At dinner. Everyone will be there, and I want you with me. And then I can’t wait for you to be able to wear my jacket all the time.” 

Stiles blushed again. “Okay.” He nodded. 

_Tonight._

***********************

Stiles opened the door to find Derek standing there, whose eyes widened and mouth dropped as he panned, rather brazenly, Stiles’ body—or, more probably, what he was wearing. 

Stiles had opted for a more formal attire, choosing a slim blazer—the one time he’d worn the one that was slightly too large for him, he’d heard Lydia when she thought he was out of earshot telling everyone at their lunch table that it was “atrocious;” he hadn’t returned to the table after dumping his tray—and a button down shirt with some slim boot-cut jeans. He’d even found a skinny tie and pulled his nice boots from the back of his closet. They were generally too uncomfortable to wear daily, but they looked nice. 

“ _You look amazing,_ ” Derek signed when Stiles had closed the door behind him. He then surprised him by tugging on his tie and crashing their lips together. 

Lips moved in a heated kiss, and Derek swept in with his tongue, as though searching for something. Some part of Stiles hoped he never found it; he didn’t want this kiss to end. Derek’s hands pushed passed his blazer, fingers burning a trail up and down Stiles’ sides and back. Derek pulled Stiles’ lip between his teeth as one hand moved down and cupped Stiles’ ass; he squeezed lightly, licking over the swollen lip and Stiles couldn’t help but moan into the kiss. 

Derek stumbled back, as though dazed. Stiles was sure there was a similar expression on his own face. Had _he_ really caused that reaction in Derek, just because of what he was wearing? 

“Uh—we—should get—yeah.” Derek gesticulated toward his Camaro. 

Stiles laughed to himself—or tried; by the look that Derek shot back at him, he hadn’t been successful. He climbed into the passenger side and asked, as Derek was turning the key in the ignition, “So when do I get to drive this thing?” 

Derek’s hand slipped off the key and he had to try again. He looked over at Stiles with a dubious expression on his face. “We’ll talk.” 

The drive to the Hales’ seemed incredibly short, though that was most likely due to Stiles’ anxiety. His leg had bounced the entire ride—or nearly, since Derek had placed his hand on Stiles’ knee in an effort to still him. It was futile; Stiles’ other leg had just begun jiggling instead. He had given Derek his best apologetic face. 

“What are _you_ even nervous about?” Derek asked as they reached the front porch. He reached out and straightened Stiles’ tie. 

Stiles playfully swatted his hands away. “Now, now, don’t get any ideas, big guy.” He waggled his eyebrows. “And you’re about to reveal you and me in a completely different light, and I might not come out of it looking too great.” 

Derek laughed at his actions and rolled his eyes at his words. “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about. Come on, I bet dinner’s ready.” 

Derek might have spoken with confidence, but he still took a deep breath and hesitated slightly before reaching for the door. 

Stiles did the same and followed him across the threshold. _Here we go, down the rabbit hole._

Derek led him into a formal dining room, the dominating feature of which was a beautiful table. Everyone was already sat down, and the food was laid out in lovely platters and bowls. Was everything in this place intimidating? 

Talia and a man who must be Derek’s father stood up from their places at the heads of the table—another thing that stood out to Stiles; even the positions at the table represented power. Talia surprisingly enveloped him in a hug that wasn’t too long or too short to seem unfriendly and obligatory. 

The man held out his hand. “I’m David, Derek’s father. It’s always a pleasure to meet a friend of his, though I apologise for his not teaching me how to spell out my name like he did Talia.” The guy—David—chuckled as he shook Stiles’ hand. 

Stiles took a breath, then said, “It’s the thought that counts, right? It’s nice to meet you, Mr Hale.” 

He glanced over at Derek whose shocked expression melted into an immensely pleased smile. Stiles smiled back. He’d muddled over this choice for what felt like eons, before deciding that he wanted to make Derek happy. And it didn’t seem likely that he could do that if he remained silent or let Derek translate for him the entire night. 

The two heads of house—and Stiles could immediately tell that the respect was evenly split between the two of them, shared by both—sat down, and Derek and Stiles followed suit. If David or Talia had felt any surprise at Stiles’ speech, they’d hidden it well. 

He finally got a chance to look around at the table. Across from him, Laura was smiling at him, and of course Stiles blushed. Cora looked up at him, scowled and then looked back down at her plate. Noah and Elijah were gazing at him with wide eyes. It all begged the question of whether Derek had ever brought another friend over. Or if anyone had. Like _that_ didn’t add to the pressure he was already feeling from tonight. 

Then he looked to his left—Derek was on his right—and blinked, jaw dropping open slightly. It was the man who had driven the SUV with the blonde woman and Daehler! Now he understood why he had looked familiar. He was obviously related to Derek in some way. His uncle, perhaps? Much too old to be his brother and surely he would have said that he had an older brother. 

The man smiled at him, though something about it seemed off. 

Derek gently touched Stiles’ arm, and he brought his attention back to him. He noticed Talia was looking at him, as though waiting, and he flushed pink again. 

“Please, to a friend of the family it’s Talia and David.” She smiled and gestured to her right, at the rest of her children. “I believe you met Laura and Cora the other night. This is Elijah and Noah. And that is Peter, my brother and Derek’s uncle.” She expertly spelled out all the three names, and Stiles wondered if she had practiced. With this woman, Stiles was certain everything came naturally. 

Stiles nodded graciously at the invitation of names and smiled gratefully at Talia for her concession to ASL. She smiled in a way that told him not to mention it, that it was her pleasure. Stiles’ mom had been the same way: so expressive and communicative in the way she held herself and moved. Stiles didn’t know if he had inherited any of that. 

Derek made a small gesture with his left hand, almost pointing…

“I hope you like roast beef, Stiles.” David grinned and winked at Talia. “I think she brought home an entire cow.” 

“Thanks for having me. It looks and smells great.” Stiles grinned back, and felt a small pang in his chest. He’d never had a dinner like this. It was really nice, actually. He was glad he was there. 

The rest of the dinner passed peaceably, with the two adults addressing him every so often, but not so much to make him uncomfortable. Derek was fantastic, with his subtle gestures and touches that would tell him that someone else wanted to talk to him. It wasn’t obvious, and it made conversation smooth sailing compared to what it could be. 

He had tried once to engage Cora in conversation, asking if she liked volleyball and if she was trying out for the team like Laura had, but her rebuff in the form of a glower put him off that rather quickly. Laura had quickly turned the conversation away from Cora and had asked him about his AP classes. 

She had accidentally turned her head to her dad as she took a bite of beef, so he hadn’t been able to catch all of the question. Panic had gripped Stiles tight, believing that she’d think Stiles was rude for not immediately answering. Stiles felt fingers curl around his wrist, pressing on his pulse point, and his breath came a little easier. 

He looked over at Derek who was talking to Laura. Laura jerked her head back, cheeks aflame in embarrassment. She apologised, though Stiles told her, breathlessly, that it was nothing, and repeated herself. 

That sparked something around the table for the adults. Talia knew, apparently, and made a comment about how many exams Stiles had to take in order to get into those classes so late in the year. David had been impressed, and even Peter was looking at him curiously. Stiles ducked his head, redder than Laura had been moments ago. 

Soon enough, the dinner was over, and Derek asked them all to go into the living room with their coffees and teas. The boys were excused to go upstairs; Talia explained with a smile that they still had some worksheets to finish. Stiles speculated, in an attempt to calm his heart rate that had just skyrocketed, as to whether the family always served coffee and tea with their desserts or if this was a Friday night thing or a guest privilege. 

Stiles almost sat down on one of the extremely comfortable-looking chairs in the formal sitting room, but then realised that Derek was standing up and without a cup. He was quick to set his down on one of the end tables and joined him, hoping it was the right thing to do. 

At Derek’s smile he knew it was. He smiled (or tried to; it might have been ineffectual) back. Stiles decided that he wouldn’t watch Derek in order to try and gauge what he was saying; instead, he would watch the family and their reactions—which were sure to prove interesting with this incredibly dynamic group. 

Currently, Peter looked bored; David and Talia were expectant; Laura was quietly excited; and Cora looked angry. Derek shifted next to him, and Stiles took it as a cue that he had begun speaking. 

A few moments later, Stiles chanced a glance at Derek and he saw him say, “…boyfriend.” Stiles’ eyes grew wide and he nearly got whiplash turning his head to look back at the rest of the family. Derek’s hand grasped his and squeezed, but Stiles was too busy studying the Hales to really notice. 

Peter caught his attention first. He was muttering something, though it looked as though he didn’t want anyone else to see. “I can see why…” Stiles thought he saw, which… 

_I’ll process that later,_ he thought to himself. 

Laura had her hands clasped over her mouth as though—had she squealed? Stiles shook his head slightly. Talia and David were just smiling at the two of them. But then he looked at Cora, and he nearly dropped Derek’s hand in shock. 

Cora was staring at their joined hands like they were vipers, horror written on her face. But when she looked up at Stiles, hatred burned in her eyes. There wasn’t another word for it. 

She got up and pushed Stiles with all her strength. Stiles fell to the ground, landing on his ass. His hand was ripped from Derek’s as he caught himself, and he winced as the impact concussed through the bones in his arms. 

“I hate you,” she spat at him and then ran off. 

Excepting Peter—whose face still held a smile—shock was the expression of the Hales. Laura seemed to come to herself first and rushed over to help Stiles up, nudging Derek as she did. 

Stiles turned to look in the direction Cora had run off to and frowned, confused. 

_Well, you can’t win them all, can you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate Cora too much. It will all be explained. I love all the Hales (well, except Peter), so don't think I'd leave her in a lurch. 
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr for any ideas you might have as to where this story is going! I might just include it in the fic! 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who leaves kudos, reads this, or leaves a comment. It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.


	10. Chatting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one wherein Derek experiences a few uncomfortable conversations, and he and Stiles get a couple firsts out of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, there is a warning that I'm including in the end notes, so please go read it if you feel it necessary. It doesn't really spoil anything, but it's a little too complicated to put in the tags, and I don't feel that it's necessary to tag for it. You'll see why when you read the warning. 
> 
> I would also like to point out that right now this chapter and all of its 16 000+ words are unbeta'ed right now. I'll make any necessary changes later, after they've had a chance to read, but I wanted to publish because I've missed my deadline, and I'm fairly proud of this chapter. 
> 
> So thank you for reading, and let's get on with the show!

Derek stood there in complete shock, jaw slack, staring after his sister who stormed up the stairs—after she had professed hatred for Stiles and shoved him to the floor. Derek was jostled, finally coming back to himself as he noticed that Laura was helping Stiles to his feet. 

Stiles, who looked just as surprised as they all did, seemed to be recovering much more quickly than the others in the room. In fact, Stiles’ expression was shuttering off, closing down, and Derek was beginning to recognise what that meant. And it was never a good thing. 

“I should probably be going,” Stiles said very quietly, looking at his shoes, further increasing Derek’s anxiety. “I don’t want to cause more trouble.” 

If Stiles left, it would mean bad news for them, for Derek and Stiles, Derek realised. Derek could tell that he was in a bad space, that awful—and probably completely untrue—thoughts were swirling around that chaotic, beautiful mind of his, and his leaving would spell disaster for them as—as anything, a couple or friends or whatever. It wouldn’t be good. 

He turned to his mother, eyes wide and panicked, and luckily she’s already looking back at him, a small frown in place. Derek tried to convey without words what he was feeling, that he did _not_ want Stiles to leave, that it would be entirely detrimental to whatever was happening. 

His face must have said something; his mother gently laid a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, who visibly flinched at the contact. He looked up at Talia, biting his lip, and the expression on his face threatened to drop Derek to his knees before it was brought back to something neutral. 

“Nonsense. You’re not causing any issues; you’re our guest, and you will remain one until you want to leave. It won’t be because you think we want you to go. You’re welcome here anytime, Stiles.” 

Stiles’ chin quivered slightly before he nodded and looked away. Derek got Laura’s attention and jutted his head at Stiles before gesturing at his mom to head for the stairs. 

Derek moved to stand in front of Stiles, putting his hands on the other boy’s shoulders. “I’m going to go talk to Cora. I think Laura wants to talk with you. Will you be here when I get back?” He gave Stiles a small smile, steeling himself for a rejection. 

But then Stiles returned the smile, and it was like the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. Derek’s smile grew into a grin, and he dipped his head to plant a gentle kiss on Stiles’ cheek. And if both sets of cheeks were blazing when Derek straightened… Well, let them stare if they wanted. 

Derek quickly looked around the room—David was chuckling to himself as he walked back to the kitchen, hands full with coffee mugs, and Peter had disappeared sometime during the madness; Laura had taken Stiles’ hands in hers and settled them both on the couch—as he trudged toward the stairs. Where and when had Peter gone? Why had he left? He wasn’t sure he liked the way Peter had looked at Stiles during the dinner, though he couldn’t really say. Whenever Derek had looked over at Peter over the course of the meal, his uncle was always in the process of looking down at his plate or at someone else surrounding the table. He decided to ask Stiles about it later, when they were away from all of this. 

But what in the world had gotten into Cora? He had never seen his younger sister act like that. Derek knew it was slightly unusual for him to bring a friend over, and that had definitely been the first time he had ever used a friend to come out to his family, but that didn’t explain her reaction in the slightest. 

At the top of the stairs, he found his mother waiting for him at the door to her youngest daughter’s room. Talia smiled warmly at him and moved out of the way. Derek took a breath and tamped down the anger. Because it was there, the anger. People weren’t treated like that, much less houseguests, especially if those people included the guy just presented as your brother’s boyfriend! And to have seen it directed at Stiles… Derek was bristling. 

And obviously failing at conquering his anger. He took another deep breath and waited until he knew for certain that the anger wouldn’t affect his voice before he knocked on the door. 

“Cora? It’s me. We should talk,” he said gently, but loud enough to be heard through the door. 

Derek looked over at his mother when there was no answer. She just smiled at him again and quirked an inquisitive eyebrow; she was giving him the reins on this one. He sighed and hoped that, if the time came, she’d chime in on the other side of that door, because he had no idea what to expect. He took the lack of reply as permission granted and eased the door open. 

Inside the room, surrounded in posters of boy bands and teen heartthrobs, Cora sat upon her bed, holding a framed photograph. At their entrance, she turned around, and Derek was shocked for a second time that night by his sister. 

Her eyes were rimmed in red and puffy; she’d been crying. Derek could see the trails that the tears had left down her cheeks. Derek froze in the doorway, completely confused. Talia moved into the room, toward Cora. She unsurprisingly didn’t console her daughter—she was probably as upset with Cora as he was, if for different reasons; she could be intense when it came to social etiquette. She took the picture from Cora’s hands, frowned down at it for a moment and then handed it to Derek. 

He blinked after he looked at it, the puzzlement over Cora’s behaviour growing. It was of the two of them, Derek and Cora, and she was probably six or seven. They were sitting at a table with tea cups and dolls and teddy bears. Derek was wearing a tiara and a tutu, his pinky held out while sipping imaginary tea that had been imported from the Queen of England’s stock herself, if he remembered correctly. Cora was dressed to the nines, including a full princess gown, wand and wings—the outfit she had picked out for when they would crown her queen of the world, she would say. Sometimes Derek still figured she had the potential to become something similar to that, if she put her mind to it. She took after their mother in that respect. 

He had always liked playing with his sisters, even if it included dress up. It made them happy, and that made him happy. But he had had no idea that there was photographic evidence! He set the frame down on her dresser and sat down by her on the bed. 

The anger had all but dissipated in looking at the photo with their two laughing faces. It had transformed into just a desire to get down to the bottom of whatever had seemingly pushed Cora over the edge. 

“What’s going on?” Derek asked, settling his hands in his lap, unsure what to do with them. 

Talia placed herself on Cora’s other side, still not saying a word, but her presence was still a comfort—hopefully to both of her children and not just Derek. 

“Is he gone?” she asked, wiping at her eyes. 

“Is who gone?” Derek countered. And okay, maybe all of the frustration Derek had felt hadn’t completely disappeared, he realised in light of Cora’s baleful glower she directed at him. 

“You know who, Derek.” 

“Are you talking about my boyfriend? Stiles?” Derek couldn’t help it; some of the irritation bled into his voice. “The guy I brought home to a family I thought, at least at some level, would support me no matter what I did? The guy who I promised that tonight would be great, that he’d love you all just as much as I do?” 

“Derek…” his mother cautioned quietly. 

“What, Ma? Are you seriously telling me that you think it’s acceptable for her to treat someone like this? Someone who—” He choked off the words, not able to bring himself to say it. 

_Someone who’s already been through hell._

“Of course not. I just think it would be best if we gave Cora a chance to explain.” Talia’s words were light, but her tone said that there had better _be_ an explanation. 

Derek’s shoulders slumped, both in defeat and in relief. His mom wouldn’t allow him to be a jerk—which he realised that his approach might not have been the best—but neither would she let Cora’s actions slide. 

“Yes, sister mine, please. Explain.” 

Cora sniffed, and Derek thought she was about to cry again, and there was no way he would have been able to handle that. Fortunately, no more tears fell, but she was silent for so long that Derek thought she might never speak. 

“I don’t want him here. I hate him.” 

Derek flinched at the venom in the words. “I can’t believe those were your first words to him.” He shook his head at her. “I honestly can’t believe that you hate him. You don’t even know him.” 

“Why do you think you hate him?” Talia asked, voice soft. 

The sudden change in tone startled Derek so much that he looked over at his mother. There was a knowing glint in her eyes. Derek had always been envious of her ability to be several steps ahead of everyone else—it was what made her such an invaluable councilwoman. If she wanted, she could probably take her career in politics much further, but she always said that she was quite happy there in Beacon Hills. She walked circles around the other members of the councils and civil servants; it would have been laughable had she not done it with grace and always to the benefit of others. 

“He’s ruining everything. He’s ruining our family.” 

Talia moved back, straightening her posture, and she looked at Derek. Surprise was written on her face. Apparently, Cora had gone in a different direction than she had expected. They both waited for her to continue, to elaborate. Cora looked at both of them, eyes wide and fearful. 

“Well, isn’t he?” Cora asked, voice raising half an octave in fright. 

“You’re going to have to fill us in on a little more here, darling,” Talia said, hand reaching out to grab Cora’s. “We’re somewhat lost.” 

“Make him go away. He shouldn’t be here. It’s not good. It’s not right!” Cora pushed herself back against the headboard, away from her position between Derek and her mother, grabbing a pillow and hugging it to her chest. 

“Why do you think it’s not good?” Derek asked. Where in the world was this coming from? 

“He’s a bad person. You brought home a bad person. He’s going to ruin the family.” 

“Okay, did someone put something in your tea? Because you’re sounding a little crazy to me, and I know you’re not insane—taste in music notwithstanding.” 

The glare he got in return for that jibe was worth it—it was pure Cora, not this nonsense she was spouting. 

“Just tell us what you’re talking about, Cora,” Talia said, smacking the back of Derek’s head. 

“You and Dad are going to kick him out.” 

“Who? Stiles?” 

“No!” Cora almost growled, apparently baffled by their inability to follow the logic of a fourteen-year-old girl. “Derek!” 

“You think Mom and Dad are gonna throw me out of the house? For having a boyfriend?” And if _that_ wasn’t a thought, he didn’t know what was. 

Derek had never even considered that this would be the worst thing his family could do. He’d only thought that they’d be unsupportive at most, not that they might take drastic action. Were there people in the world who did that to their own families? Of course there were; he heard about it all the time, but there was absolutely no way the Hales would act like that, right? 

“Yes! I—my—her brother…” 

Talia leaned back against the headboard like her daughter, and she placed her arm around her shoulders. If Cora took after Derek in any way, it was that words sometimes escaped her. It was difficult to talk about certain things, especially if all his thoughts about them hadn’t settled yet. 

Cora took a deep breath before she continued. “My friend, Vanessa, has a brother who brought home a guy, and her parents yelled at them. Her dad almost hit them, but they ended up just making him move out. Vanessa says it’s because of the guy he brought home, and that they’re everything that’s wrong in this world. That homosexuality is bad and nothing good can come from it.” 

“Oh, sweetie…” Talia enveloped her in a hug, cradling her head as she dissolved into tears again. 

Derek just sat there, completely devoid of any emotion. Even though he had no idea where that had been going, why Cora had pushed Stiles down and told him she hated him, he was fairly certain that her confession would not have made the top ten. 

“We were never going to do that, ever. We’re happy he found someone. In fact, we’re so proud of him for his wanting to tell us at all! It’s a very brave thing, even today.” Talia pushed away from Cora and brought Derek into her embrace. “And Stiles is a great kid, from what I’ve seen.” She shook Derek’s shoulder as though to emphasise her point. 

Cora sniffled. “Really? So, he’s staying? Derek is, I mean?” 

Talia laughed. “Of course he’s staying! His leaving was never an option that crossed our mind. The only thing that I was thinking at the time was what colour our dresses should be for his June wedding.” She winked at Derek. 

“Ma!” Derek shot up from his spot, face scarlet. 

Talia just smiled serenely at him, extricating herself from Cora and standing up from the bed. “I think my work here is done. I’m going to see what damage your father has more than probably caused the kitchen.” As she passed Derek, she gave him a hug and whispered, “I really am proud of you. And honestly, I thought she was going to say she was in love with the boy herself.” 

Patting him on the back, she walked out, leaving behind a gaping son and a giggling daughter. 

Derek shook his head as he sat back down on the bed. “I sometimes think I should be adopted.” 

Cora laughed again. Then her expression became serious, almost melancholic. “I—uh—well.” She coughed to clear her throat. “I obviously don’t actually hate Stiles. I was just… I really thought that since it happened to Vanessa and her family, that it might be the same here? I don’t think—not to be cliché—but love is love, right?” 

Derek choked on air. “I think it’s a little soon to be saying things like that, but I get what you’re saying. And thanks. I wish you had gone about it a little differently, but in your own way, you were just trying to look out for me.” He grinned and reached over to ruffle her hair. 

“I guess I’ll go downstairs and apologise?” Cora asked in a tone that told him she was dreading it with every fibre of her being. 

“You will, but not right now. It’s been an extraordinary evening for him—for all of us, really—so I think I’m just gonna drive him home.” 

Cora smirked, and the glint in her eye told Derek he wasn’t going to like what she said next. “And if you just so happen to pass that secluded service road on the way…” 

Derek shoved her hard enough that she rolled off the side of her bed and landed with a loud _thunk_. “Oops, I slipped.” Then he hastily vacated the room before she could right herself. 

Closing the door, he almost ran into his mother, who immediately enveloped him into a hug. 

“I really am proud of you.” Talia pulled back and gave him a genuine grin. But then she schooled her expression into something more serious, and Derek felt his heart stutter. “We need to talk though. About Stiles.” 

Derek’s stomach turned to lead as he was ushered, insensate, into his own room down the hall. Was she about to tell him that she didn’t actually like Stiles? Or that, while they wouldn’t kick him out of the house, they wouldn’t all him to keep seeing Stiles? And why did he have to keep jumping to the worst conclusions when it involved this guy? 

Something must have shown on his face because the next thing his mother said was, “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Stiles and Laura are still chatting away down there; I checked.” She sat down on his computer chair, needlessly smoothing out her pencil skirt. 

“Explain what happened with the cut on his forehead.” 

Derek gaped at the woman sitting before him. “Do you think I did it to him?” 

Talia’s expression blossomed into one of complete surprise. “Of course not! I just want to make sure everything’s okay.” 

“He told me there was a puddle in the bathroom; he slipped and his head hit the sink.” Derek watched her face carefully as he answered. She just simply nodded, but she continued to look thoughtful. 

“Every so often he’d take a deep breath and grimace, as if in pain,” Talia noted. 

“My, what big eyes you have,” Derek muttered, half to himself. 

Though it did concern him that he _hadn’t_ noticed that; he’d split his attention too many ways through dinner, trying to make sure Stiles knew when someone was trying to speak with him, on top of attempting to gauge their reactions toward his being there. That was why he had ground to a complete halt at Cora’s outburst after their coffees. 

“Of course I’m going to be curious about the first someone you bring home to introduce to the family.” 

Derek just hummed in response. 

“It’s just him and his father?” 

Derek wasn’t at all sure where she was going with this line of questioning, though he felt it probably wasn’t somewhere good. He nodded, anxiety rising. He wanted to get back downstairs to Stiles, take him away from this house full of crazy. 

“This has been a long time coming, hasn’t it? Almost two years, I’d say.” 

Derek just blinked at his mother, words failing him. 

“A mother knows, dear. Something about you changed toward the beginning of your sophomore year. I could never figure out the cause. You never said anything and Laura never said anything, no matter how often or obliquely I grilled her—and don’t think I don’t know about you two colluding to keep this from me.” 

With every other word, Derek’s eyes bugged further out of his face (or so it felt anyway). He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. 

“I’m just glad that you finally decided that you deserved it, to go after it—or him, I suppose I should say, now that I know everything.” Talia eyed him for a moment. “Okay, okay. I can see you jiggling your knee there,” Talia jibed at him. “I’ll let you get back to your _special friend_.” She laughed before she continued, “But I wasn’t kidding; I think a summer wedding would be absolutely perfect—” 

Derek walked out of the room before she could finish that sentence, grumbling to himself as he made his way down the stairs. Surprisingly (or maybe not so much), Stiles was sitting on one of the sofas, chuckling at whatever Laura had just said. 

And then Stiles noticed him entering the room, and he gave him _that_ smile, the one just for him he’d finally come to realise, and it was as though every stressful thing that happened tonight just melted away. He returned the smile, eyes only for Stiles right then, and held out his hand. 

“Come on, let’s go.” 

Stiles’ smile didn’t falter; it grew into a grin. Derek was vaguely aware of him issuing some sort of goodbye to his sister, and then he was gently pulling the other boy toward the front door. He grabbed Stiles’ coat and slipped it on him, and then they were outside. 

“So… You’re quiet,” he heard Stiles’ voice whisper. There was something in his voice that should have caught Derek’s attention, and it tickled the back of his mind that he was experiencing an odd sense of déjà vu, but he remained oblivious. 

It was freezing out there, so he ushered Stiles toward his car, opening the door for him before rushing over to the driver’s side. He climbed inside and that’s when he noticed Stiles staring at him, with large, wide eyes, and he was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. He paused in the act of clicking his seatbelt in place. 

“What?” he asked, confused at whatever Stiles’ expression held. 

“You haven’t said a word since after dessert. You came downstairs after talking with your mom and your sister and took me outside in a rush…” Stiles’ words trailed off, as though he was waiting for Derek to pick up the remaining pieces of the puzzle and fit them together. 

But Derek was dense sometimes; he wasn’t the best at picking up social cues, and he especially wasn’t great at responding to them. He did well enough, usually, but Stiles excelled at tripping him up, at making him fall over his words. 

It was one of the things Derek liked about him, actually. That Stiles was unpredictable and kept him on his toes. But that didn’t mean Derek wasn’t clueless at times like these. If there were pieces to that puzzle that he hadn’t put together, it was because he hadn’t found them. He was about to open his mouth and tell Stiles, but Stiles interrupted, apparently impatient at Derek’s silence. 

“Open communication, right? To avoid the disaster that was today at school?” At Derek’s completely confounded nod, Stiles said, “Are you finally regretting this? You’re taking me away from your home, your family, in a rush because you never want me to see them again, and you’re going to drop me off at my house and tell me you never want to see me again, too?” 

Derek’s heart clenched. He put away his thoughts on Stiles’ use of “finally,” thinking that he’d come back to that sometime later, and decided to use action instead of words. He was generally more successful in that respect. Go big or go home, right? 

Derek curled a hand around Stiles’ neck and gently pulled him forward, meeting him halfway across the gearshift. His lips met Stiles’, whose mouth was still parted, perhaps in surprise, and though part of him wanted to change the angle and deepen the kiss, he kept it soft and light. Hopefully his intentions would come through, that he wasn’t going anywhere unless Stiles wanted him to. He was all in. 

Something in Stiles’ demeanour changed. He relaxed into the kiss before pulling back and resting his forehead against Derek’s. “Okay.” 

The drive to Stiles’ house was done in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Derek just liked being in the other boy’s presence, whatever that said about him. Derek pulled into the driveway and put the Camaro in park, hopping out quickly to dash over to Stiles’ side. 

Stiles gave him a shit-eating grin after Derek opened his door. “I could get used to this.” 

Derek’s body flooded with warmth at the statement. He would bet it all on that being Stiles’ way of saying he was in this, too. Derek returned the grin and offered his arm. Soon enough, they were standing there on the porch again. Stiles was still in that tie and that shirt and those pants, and Derek wanted nothing more than to devour him. 

Stiles scuffed the toe of his shoe on his porch, looking like he felt awkward, so Derek decided to do something about it. He repeated his action from earlier that evening, and he wrapped the tie around his hand. But instead of using it to pull Stiles to him, he marched the boy toward the wall next to the door, and when he was almost to it, he let go of the tie. Stiles stumbled, less than half a step, his back hitting the wall with a small thump. 

Stiles grunted upon impact. “Wha—” 

Derek didn’t let him finish the question. He crowded himself into Stiles’ space, removing every inch between them, slotting their legs together, until their bodies were flush. He saw Stiles’ pupils dilate, his mouth forming an O-shape, but no sound escaped him. Derek hummed and angled his head to capture Stiles’ mouth. 

This time Derek didn’t hold back. His slid his lips against Stiles’, feeling him respond. He licked into his mouth, lips already sweetly parted for him. Stiles’ hands were bunched in Derek’s shirt near his waist; he felt them slowly move up, tentatively at first but growing bolder. They travelled down his back; Derek groaned when they cupped his ass and pulled him forward, grinding their hips together. 

Stiles answered with a moan of his own, exploring Derek’s mouth with his tongue. The friction was at once awful and amazing. He could feel Stiles against him, pressing against his own, and that heated his blood more than almost anything else. 

Derek reluctantly moved away from Stiles’ lips, but turned his attention elsewhere, mouthing along his jaw. Derek almost growled when Stiles thrust against him when he gently nipped at his pulse on his neck. He pulled back and waited for Stiles to open his eyes, studying his full, bruised lips, still invitingly parted. When Stiles finally did open them, his pupils where blown wide, and he frowned. 

“Why’d you stop? Did I do something wrong?” Stiles’ voice was deeper, rougher sounding, and Derek was man enough to admit—to himself—that it did things to him. 

Derek just smiled and pressed a quick kiss to Stiles’ lips. “I just wanted to say that I think you should wear things like this more often.” Then he found his spot again on Stiles’ neck and sucked—hard. 

“But I don’t—oh, _fuck_!—I don’t think I could wear this in public—oh, my god—with you. If it makes you— _shit_ —act like this. We’d have to stay in.” 

Stiles was apparently colourful when aroused, if the way he reacted every time Derek used his teeth or sucked on his neck was any indication. And Derek was more than okay with that. He hummed appreciably at Stiles’ statement, knowing that Stiles could feel him do it with his teeth sunk in the flesh where his shoulder met his neck. 

Stiles laughed at him. Derek pulled back to glower at him, though unsuccessfully if the fact that his laugh grew said anything. 

“So…” Stiles’ sombre tone made Derek pause in the act of laving a spot on his neck with his tongue where there might be a mark in the morning. “I think I saw you say the word ‘boyfriend.’” 

Derek stiffened, frozen against Stiles. He slowly raised his head to look Stiles in the eyes. His completely expressionless face gave absolutely nothing away. They technically had never had that conversation, about what they were to each other. Was that completely the wrong assumption to make? 

“Was I—did I—was that bad?” 

Stiles’ face split into a wide grin. “Since you seem to prefer actions over words…” He leant forward and planted a kiss on Derek’s cheek. 

It seemed the perfect complement to what he said, and Derek immediately relaxed as Stiles wrapped his arms around him. 

“So now you’re my fella? My guy? My ol’ man?” Stiles whispered into his ear. 

Derek shivered, both at the closeness and the words and their implication. He nodded at Stiles who grinned back at him. “But let’s make a deal. I’ll let you keep the first two if you drop the last and promise to never call me that again.” 

Stiles kissed Derek chastely on the lips, though he seemed reluctant to pull away. He hummed when he finally did, saying, “I should probably go inside. I dunno if you’ve noticed, but my dad is technically home.” 

Derek’s heart stuttered at the possible kink in his plan. If Stiles’ father had already seen them together… He shook his head, clearing him of any negative thoughts. His plan was going to go off without a hitch. 

“Okay, I guess I’ll let you go.” Derek grinned at Stiles, completely aware that wouldn’t go over well with him. And he was rewarded with an affronted look from his—boyfriend, he realised that he could say, with complete abandon if he wished. He tightened his hold on Stiles, afraid he might float away with that thought. 

Stiles pushed Derek away, lightly punching his chest with clenched fists, and he extricated himself from their tangle of limbs. “Oh, you’ll _let_ me go, Der-bear?” 

Derek’s jaw dropped at the blatant use of Laura’s nickname for him. He narrowed his eyes. So they had been talking about him, at least for some amount of time. He was going to kill his sister. 

But then Stiles turned back after unlocking his front door, and those eyes on him, easily changing from amber to whiskey brown in the sparse moonlight—and light from the porch, of course; not everything was stupidly romantic, no matter how Stiles made him feel—made everything else flow away. 

“So I’ll see you later?” The tremulous nature of the question made Derek want to frown. One day, he’d make sure that Stiles knew he wasn’t going anywhere, but that couldn’t happen overnight. 

“Yeah—yes. Definitely.” Derek had to clear his throat to get the words out, catching at the expression on Stiles’ face. 

Stiles nodded and smiled and then he was gone, a door between them. Derek let out a deep breath, shoulders slumping a little; he was definitely sorry to see him go, but he had a plan to set in motion. 

Against his better judgment, he stepped into their yard, toward the side of the house, and looked up. He could see one of Stiles’ windows, and a light clicked on. Derek hurriedly brought out his phone and tapped out a message. 

_[Message to: Stiles Stilinski]_  
 _I have a few things to do tomorrow, but on Sunday… I want to take you out. And yes, I realise that I should have asked you in person, when you were with me. Let’s just say you can be very distracting._  
 _[Today, 22.15]_

The reply was almost instantaneous. 

_[Message from: Stiles Stilinski]_  
 _Since when am I the Elizabeth to your Darcy?_  
 _[Today, 22.15]_

He frowned. That wasn’t the answer he was looking for exactly. His phone buzzed with another message. 

_[Message from: Stiles Stilinski]_  
 _Consider it a date. I even wrote it on my calendar. In pen, might I add! Now quit being a perv and get off my lawn._  
[Today, 22.16]

Derek laughed and made his way to his car. He stumbled a little, choking on his laughter when he saw that Stiles had sent a photo. It was of a large desk calendar—he didn’t even know people still bought those—zoomed in on the day after tomorrow. There was a large heart drawn around the date, in pink sharpie, with other differently coloured hearts scattered about the square. In the centre was writing that said, “Mr and Mrs Stiles and Derek Stilinski-Hale.” 

Stiles had sent the image along with an emoticon that had its tongue protruding, so Derek knew it was a joke, but the coincidence with him and that pic and what his mother had said was almost too great to ignore. So Derek’s steps had faltered, and maybe he scurried a little more quickly to his car. He didn’t want to confront his feelings for Stiles in light of marriage, joking or not. He didn’t want to realise how very much all right he was with the idea of a June wedding.

 _I don’t want to admit to myself how already in love I am with him…_ It might cost him too much. 

************************

Derek looked at his reflection in the door to the sheriff’s department and straightened his tie. He was more nervous right at that moment than he had been heading down the corridor to Stiles’ room in the hospital. It was awful. For a few seconds back at his house, he thought he’d been about to throw up—he wasn’t certain then at the station that the feeling had completely passed. 

He ran his hands down his shirt and tie, smoothing out wrinkles that weren’t there, and took a giant gulp of air. He could do this. He _had_ to do this; it was only right. 

Derek opened the door and strode purposefully inside. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Shondra at the front desk. An ally, perhaps, though he knew it would actually do little good; he had to do the actual ‘battle,’ as it were, alone. 

“Derek! You’re very dashing today.” She leaned over the desk, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “Got a hot date tonight with a special someone?” 

“Well, not tonight… But yeah.” Derek blurted the words out before he could stop himself. He almost wished he could take them back, but telling Shondra felt good. He only hoped what came next would feel like that. 

Shondra’s eyes widened and she clasped her hands over her mouth. “Oh, my word. You didn’t! You finally got your head out of your ass and asked him out!” 

Derek’s jaw dropped. “You _know_?” Did everybody know? 

“Oh, honey. Do you know how many cups of coffee you spilled, papers you dropped and pencils you broke over the few times that he came in to give his dad lunch or replace the one he somehow knew that his dad bought?” Shondra laughed. “Sometimes I think that boy had a better sense about people than I do.” There was admiration in her voice. 

Derek spluttered, unable to put words to his thoughts. 

“Oh, don’t worry, kiddo. He never noticed—probably a good thing, for your sake, my precious awkward gosling—and nobody else did either.” Shondra patted his hand that was gripping the edge of the counter until his fingertips turned white. “I remember one time that he somehow caught wind that Sheriff had some curly fries—you know, the really spicy ones they sell at that place on Second? Well, he showed up, with this humungous salad—no dressing—and you had been late because of some lacrosse game or practice—was that before he’d made the team? I don’t remember Sheriff ranting and raving about his son being an ‘all-star lacrosse player’ until a stretch of time after that… 

“Anyway, there you were, stinking up a storm, no matter how much deodorant and cologne you had tried spraying on yourself beforehand, hon. It was bad. And he walks in here, the first thing he says, ‘What’s that smell?’” She laughed at the memory, loudly to Derek’s ears. He could feel the blush coming. He remembered what came after Stiles’ arrival to the office. 

“And I lost it. I think everyone at the station had commented on your attire and odorous presence by then. I almost messed myself! Stiles just laughed with me, not really caring why I was laughing before he made his way toward his dad’s office. But then you had finally noticed him, and do you know what you did?” Before Derek could answer her, she continued, “You stapled your hand!” 

Shondra seemed to lose it again, cackling madly at the memory of him shouting in pain at the small piece of metal entering his hand. Stiles had either turned at the commotion or because he was getting closer to the source of the smell—Derek hadn’t known he’d smelled that bad! Though virtually the entire office had said something about it… And Derek had ducked down behind a desk to avoid Stiles knowing he was there. It had been humiliating enough to have a staple in his hand without having to face _him_ there. 

“So why are you at the front desk?” he asked once she had calmed down enough to be able to hear him, both because he wanted to distract her from embarrassing him even further when he was on a mission and because he was genuinely curious. Usually she was busy enough dealing with managing the rest of the office without having to man the front desk. 

“We’re a little short-staffed today. Had a few call-ins. Nothing we can’t handle, though everyone is a little touchy.” 

_That makes this a little more complicated_ , Derek thought. He frowned. 

“Something wrong, Derek?” 

Derek smoothed out his frown and shook his head. “Is the sheriff in today?” He technically already knew the answer to his question, but he didn’t think it hurt to ask. When Shondra nodded, he asked, “Is he…also touchy?” He used her word to try and allow for some tact. He wasn’t certain of his success, given her responding grin. 

“You know, oddly he wasn’t. He came into the office basically buzzing with energy, a grin on his face and everything. I told him about all the people who called in—the flu has been going around again; I swear we all spend too much time with each other if we’re spreading all these germs around—and he just brushed it off.” Shondra smiled at him. “I think he said, ‘Shondra, the sun is shining, we’re all alive, it’s a great day. We can handle this.’ And then he told me to save that dance for him.” 

It was Shondra’s little trick: When the sheriff came in to the department in a mood, or something happened to put him in one, Shondra would always ask, “You wanna dance, Sheriff?” And it never failed; it would always put a smile on his face, for at least a little while, and it made him realise that maybe he was being a little overbearing and micromanaging—which is what he did when he was in a sour humour. 

“Well, that’s good. Yeah, that’s…good.” Derek hoped that good disposition continued until after he finished speaking with him. 

“Yes, I suppose it is. And you’re just…gonna walk away, then. Good seeing you!” Shondra said as he made his way passed the counter and into the rest of the department’s building. 

He waved in her general direction when, in the back of his mind, he realised that she was still speaking to him, but he was completely focussed. He was a drawn arrow, nocked and ready to release. He was…he was about to shake out of his metaphorical boots. 

How had he ever thought this was a good idea, Derek wondered as he slowly meandered through the labyrinth of desks. He reached the short hallway that led to the sheriff’s office much too quickly in his opinion. Perhaps he should turn around and do this another time. 

He told himself that the timing seemed opportune. Sheriff was in a good mood. He had asked Stiles out on an actual date, and he’d accepted! That was something that still surprised Derek, no matter how amenable and affectionate Stiles had seemed toward him earlier that evening. And that was apparently what he needed to bolster his courage and rap a few quick knocks on the sheriff’s door. The swelling of bliss that curled in his stomach at the thought that Stiles was his boyfriend; and that he was taking him out tomorrow night. 

But then the sheriff had to go and ruin it by answering his request for entrance by saying “Come in.” Derek figured he could find his stomach in his shoes, or on the other side of the world, depending upon how far it fell. Derek huffed out a breath and opened the door. 

“Derek! Sit down, son; I’ll be with you in just a minute,” the sheriff said, gesturing to a chair. 

Derek thought about refusing the offer, that he should remain standing for whatever was to come, but then he thought about his knees and how they felt like they were about to give out at any moment and took a seat.

The sheriff was holding a phone to his ear and pecking away at the keyboard to his computer. He’d never been exceptionally proficient at using a computer; there were many times that he had asked Derek to type up a letter or a form of some sort, even though it technically wasn’t allowed. “Yes, tomorrow will be great. Thanks, Stan.” 

The sheriff hung up the phone and swivelled the monitor around to face Derek. “You’re about his age. Do you think Stiles would like this game?” 

The officer was on Amazon looking at a list of Xbox 360 games. The one he was pointing to was the video game version of the latest Transformers movie. Derek had to bite back a laugh. He remembered a rant to Scott that had lasted the entire length of the school, from their classroom to the cafeteria about how terrible it had been. (“Yes, Scott, _of course_ the robots were cool; but robots do not a great movie make, my friend! I ran out of fingers and toes three times counting how many explosions Michael Bay crammed in there. He needs to draw the line somewhere, man.”) 

And Derek wanted to let the record show that he had not planned on being almost directly behind them during their commute down the hall; it had just happened. And he also couldn’t help the fact that when Stiles got the bit, he ran with it. He had always been emphatic when he spoke. It was one of the many things that had drawn Derek to him. 

Derek shook his head as he scanned the page. He stopped on a title that looked more promising. _Diablo III_ —Derek wasn’t much of a gamer, but he thought he’d heard good things about that one. 

“That one looks better, I think, sir,” he said, pointing it out on the screen. He quickly withdrew his hand when he noticed that it was still shaking. 

“Oh good. No half-naked women on the front or punks wielding guns like they actually think know how to shoot one.” 

Derek nearly choked on his own tongue when the sheriff mentioned scantily clad women. And just then he realised that already the reins on the conversation had been taken from him. The sheriff had been the one to bring up Stiles first. Derek scrambled to recover his equilibrium, to regain control. The entire family of Stilinski men must have made it their mission to confound his every move. 

“I realised last night that I kinda…missed Christmas,” the sheriff said, giving Derek a sheepish grin that was so reminiscent of Stiles that Derek grinned back immediately. “So I ordered him some new shoes that I caught him eyeballing one day and now this thing that makes me want to ask him if he’s into the occult.” 

Derek didn’t hold back his laugh at that—he would pay to see that conversation between the two of them. He was glad Stiles’ dad was making this effort; he knew that things hadn’t exactly been the greatest for them lately, and (though he didn’t know the details) he guessed this was a step in the right direction. 

“So, Derek, my boy. What brings you down here? I don’t remember you being on the schedule for this weekend.” He gave Derek a once over. “You look pretty sharp today.” 

Derek’s tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, instantly contracting cotton mouth. He cleared his throat several times before he regained his speech. “Well, it’s about Stiles, actually.” He paused, to try and work moisture back into his mouth and to watch the sheriff for his reaction. 

The man leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms and his legs. The movement caused his badge to glint in the light, and Derek couldn’t help but glance down to where he was about to just see the top of his gun holster. The weapon wasn’t in it; he knew the sheriff put it in his desk when he was there, but that didn’t do much to assuage his nervousness. 

“I’m listening.” 

_Good. I’ve already fucked this up. Five words in and I’ve got him on the defensive._

It took everything he had to make himself not gulp audibly before he spoke again. “I’ve come to—” Derek reached up and adjusted his tie. He felt like he was sweating bullets. Maybe he should have worn the three undershirts he’d jokingly considered to prevent perspiring through his button down. He took a deep breath and steeled himself. 

_Just like a Band-Aid,_ he thought. 

“I’ve come to ask your permission to date him—Stiles—your son.” 

Derek wanted to slap a hand to his face, to cover it and hide with his shame, but he just closed his mouth and looked at the sheriff, who just sat there across from him. He wasn’t moving. He had a small, short moment of panic, thinking that maybe the man had stopped breathing, but then he saw the flash of the badge again as the sheriff’s chest rose and fell with each breath. 

And then the silence continued. It stretched into unfathomable moments. Was he planning the best way to fire him? Or maybe he was calculating how much blood would be lost if he removed an arm. Or what if he was thinking about the best ways to kill him inside a building crawling with officers of the law and remove his body without being found out? But then he supposed they were all in his pocket, so to speak, since he was so beloved around there that they would all pitch in to help him. 

He almost burst into laughter—hysterical by that point in the eternity-long silence—when he realised that half of those mental questions had been in Stiles’ voice. He shook his head slightly to try and clear it. Since when had Stiles ingrained himself so thoroughly into his psyche that his voice had taken up residence in his mind? That was, perhaps, something left to ponder on a rainy day… 

Suddenly, the sheriff moved. Derek tried hard not to flinch. All the man did was place his arms on the desk and lace his fingers together. 

“Do you know my son, Derek?” he asked, voice gruff and entirely serious. 

“I—well—yes. I do.” Derek’s tongue felt like lead in his mouth as he stumbled over his words. 

“Apparently not very well, if you came here to do that,” the sheriff continued in the same tone. He held up a hand to forestall any objections—not that Derek had the brainpower currently to formulate any protests. “Stiles does what he wants, when he wants. He follows the principle that it’s better to ask forgiveness, so I’m not at all sure he’d appreciate you asking for permission.” 

The man paused and looked at him, stone-faced. He didn’t appear to be waiting for Derek to say anything, so he decided to keep his mouth shut. 

“Does he know you’re here?” 

“I—uh—no.” 

Sheriff Stilinski raised a hand and rubbed his forehead, sighing. “I advise you to keep it that way.” 

He looked straight at Derek, and his expression turned calculating. Derek felt as though every choice he’d ever made had just been weighed and analysed; his entire life had been boiled down to a singular decision that the man was about to share with Derek. 

“It’s like this: I was in an excellent mood today up until this point. My boy, the one I thought I had lost, came home last night and found me in my office. And then he opened his mouth and talked to me—actually used his words! He told me about how school’s been going for him, how his classes are difficult but manageable now that he’s in AP. He talked about his sessions with Morrell, to make sure he’s on track and everything. He…” 

The sheriff paused, clearing his throat and using his hands to rub at his eyes. “He told me that he was sad he had to quit lacrosse, but that it was for the best. We talked and it was great. I thought that our relationship was changed forever after…” He cut himself off, but Derek knew what he meant. He couldn’t even begin to parse out what that family has gone through; it was indescribable. 

“What I find striking is that there wasn’t a single mention of you.” 

Derek’s throat tightens. Stiles didn’t tell his father about them? That couldn’t mean anything good, could it? 

“I wouldn’t take that too harshly. I know my son. He’s learned to keep it close to home. Especially things that he cares for deeply. So until he figures out exactly what you mean to him, or until you show him that you mean it, he won’t include me. Stiles didn’t even tell me about his being on the team until after the third game.” 

ji 

“I have a feeling that you’re to thank for his coming to talk to me. So for that, you have my genuine gratitude, Derek. I’m not sure what would have happened if things had continued like that…” The sheriff coughed again, and Derek averted his eyes when he saw the wetness shining behind the man’s lashes. 

“Stiles is my light. He is my everything. He always has been and always will be. Nothing will ever change that in my eyes. He’s my little boy, no matter how big he gets. 

“I don’t care how many times you’ve had this conversation with other parents, because right now this concerns my son and he—is—my—entire—world.” 

Every word looked like it was punched out of the man with the emotion they held behind them. Derek was breathing heavily, not in fear, but in awe of the relationship that the sheriff had with his son. 

“I have what other parents didn’t have.” The sheriff paused and seemed to collect himself. 

Derek wanted to interject and say that he’d never had a relationship like that before, that he’d definitely never experienced anything akin to the conversation he was having with Stiles’ father before, but he had a feeling that he would be told when it was turn to have the floor. If he’d get the chance. 

“I have access to an evidence room. Filled with guns in decades-old closed cases, serial numbers filed off, completely untraceable. I have access to a department full of people who would help me if I just said the word.” 

And right then maybe it was time for a little fear. It took tremendous effort on Derek’s part for him to remain upright and unflinching on the chair. 

“I don’t take or give threats out lightly. But so help me God, if you break him more than he’s already—they’ll never figure out what happened because there won’t be anything left to find.” 

Derek couldn’t stop the nervous swallowing this time. He felt skewered on the look that the sheriff was directing at him, unable to move and completely hollowed out. He wanted to tell him that he wouldn’t dare, that he really cared for Stiles, that he understood Stiles has been through so much, but the sheriff would just take them as empty words—something a guy said to get in his good graces or something. 

“Now, having said that, I also don’t want you to take my allowing this as a blessing. It’s not. Far from it, in fact. I, too, play it close to home, though that’s something I’ve always done instinctively—unlike Stiles who had to learn it the hard way.” 

He moved back around the desk and sat down, turning the monitor back to face him. He clicked a few things, and then Derek heard the printer in the corner wake up. The man seemed content to let him stew for a few moments. 

Finally, he said, “I’m waiting for Stiles to come to me and tell me about you, to tell me that you’re worth something to him. But I also won’t stand in your way.” Sheriff Stilinski glared at him again, and Derek sat up straighter, though his posture was perfect already. “But mark my words carefully.” 

If that didn’t sound like a dismissal, he wasn’t sure what would. Derek stood up, nodded once to his boss, and made his way to the door. Then the sheriff spoke up again, his tone completely different from before. It was just like they were having a normal conversation any other day. 

“Do you already have plans to take him out?” 

“Yes—I—tomorrow afternoon.” Derek decided that one day he would make Stiles trip over his words just as much as the Stilinski men have made him. 

“Tomorrow is a school night; make sure he’s back early.” Derek had his hand on the door’s handle when he said, “Oh, and Derek? No funny business.” 

It was definitely time to get out of there. He rushed between the desks and back into the lobby area, skidding to a halt when he saw who was talking to Shondra. 

“Mom?” 

Talia started at Derek’s stunned outburst. “Oh, hi, honey! What are you doing here?” 

Shondra just smiled at Derek like she found his entire life amusing to her benefit. 

“I could ask you the same thing, don’t you think?” 

“Oh, just council business, you know.” His mom turned back to Shondra. “You said he’s just in his office?” 

“Sure, sure. Just go on in. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see someone from city hall on a Saturday. He’s been meaning to catch someone’s ear for some time,” Shondra said, winking at Talia. 

Talia grimaced at that, but nodded graciously to the office manager and walked around Derek, still standing in the middle of the entrance to the station proper. “You just go on about your day, Derek. Will you be home for dinner?” 

She didn’t wait for a reply before making her way toward the sheriff’s office. 

Derek quirked an eyebrow at Shondra, who said, “Don’t look at me. She wouldn’t tell me anything, and you know how that irks me.” 

He shook his head, putting the fact that his mother was just at his quasi-workplace to the back of his mind, and left the station. He had some things to put together. 

_I hope it all goes more according to plan than this afternoon…_

************************

Derek took in a breath as he rang the doorbell. He bent down and gave it another award-winning cheeky smile. The sheriff was fortunately at the station again, so Derek didn’t have to deal with any more awkward moments with Stiles’ father. He absolutely admired the man known as the sheriff, but when he handed in his badge for the day and became his boyfriend’s father, it was a completely different story. He definitely wasn’t used to being intimidated like that. 

He heard stumbling and cursing from inside the house, and just as Derek was about to yank open the door in blind panic, it was opened from the inside. There stood Stiles, slightly more than half-dressed. His incredibly skinny pants were undone as was his shirt, completely unbuttoned. It gave a nice view of his abdomen and torso, and Derek took the opportunity to ogle his _fella_ , as Stiles had said. 

Stiles was angrily wrapping another tie around his neck, though it seemed much shorter than the last one, Derek realised when he was finally able to tear his eyes away from Stiles’ lean body. “Who the hell says they’re gonna show up at five and then shows up at five? Everybody knows about fashionably late, don’t they?” 

He moved aside to let Derek in and then seemed to notice what he was doing, and what he was wearing. Derek was gratified to see that Stiles did indeed flush with the majority of his body. “Oh, my god. Give me five—no, ten minutes.” 

He rushed up the stairs, the ends of his shirt flying behind him. He tripped on the last step, and Derek was moving to help him when he caught himself, like it was a daily occurrence. 

Stiles called out, “Make yourself at home! There’s stuff to drink in the fridge!” And then Derek heard the slamming of a door and, faintly, some more crashes and curses. 

Keeping up with this guy might not exactly be a walk in the park, Derek thought, but he was more than certain Stiles was worth it. 

Derek used the time by walking around the living room and checking things out. He’d been in the house several times now, but he’d never really had the chance to look at anything. There were framed photographs everywhere: on nearly every available surface and covering the wall. Almost all of them were of Stiles, and most of them included his mom. 

He smiled softly at them, picking a few up to get a better look. They were almost always smiling. In some they were looking directly at the camera and making faces, sticking their tongues out, as though they knew they were being photographed and it wasn’t appreciated. In one, that was probably his favourite by far, Stiles and his mom were reading the Sunday comics and laughing. It was strikingly beautiful. 

Derek looked around the room again, at all the pictures, and his heart clenched. There was something about them… He looked up the stairs and down the hall, where there weren’t any more photos, and he realised. They all just stopped. Stiles reached a certain age, probably around thirteen, and then he wasn’t in the photos after that. 

And neither was his mom. 

The room was some sort of memorial to her, and suddenly it felt like sacrilege to be in there. He was sure that the knick-knacks, the figurines and other things, were hers, too. The men in her life obviously hadn’t been able to rid themselves of these mementos, and Derek understood. Or he told himself he did. He had no idea what it was like, and he should probably be in awe of their strength of being able to wake up and face every day. 

Derek heard a door open and he quickly wiped his eyes, realising they were wet with tears. He moved out of the room to wait for Stiles at the foot of the stairs, who basically came down them at light speed. Derek noted that what he had thought was just a really short tie actually ended up being a bow tie. He usually thought they were a little silly, but they apparently worked on him. Evidently anything worked on him, in Derek’s opinion—he might be a little biased, who knew? 

Stiles must have seen something on Derek’s face, something in his expression, because his smile fell a little. He looked back over into the sitting room. “Oh, you saw, huh?” 

He went in and picked up Derek’s favourite, of the two of them laughing so beautifully, and his face crumpled at it, all of the walls coming down for just a second. But it was almost immediate that his expression was forged into something guarded, something he could face the world with, and he looked up at Derek with a small smile on his face. 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” he asked, and it was a deliberate, heart-breaking choice for him to use the present tense. 

It took a moment for Derek to find his voice before he nodded and said, “Yes, she is.” 

Stiles turned and put the photo back on the small table, resting his fingers atop it reverently. When he turned around, his expression was more like Stiles, and whatever had just happened was in the past. 

Stiles moved to the door and opened it for him, locking it behind them. “All right, Mr Darcy, shall we?” 

Derek laughed and offered his arm. “Let’s shall.” 

When they were settled in the car, Derek told him to look in the glove compartment. “And put it on.” 

Stiles gave him a look, and then reached into the compartment. He pulled out a sleeping mask. “Oh, my god. You’re going to kill me. You’re actually a serial killer. I bet your whole family is in on it, too. That’s why you took me to dinner, so they could size me up, isn’t it? Oh, my god.” 

Derek reached out and curled his fingers around Stiles’ wrist to get his attention. “Stiles! No. Obviously you’re just insane,” he said with a smile. “I just want the first place we go to be a surprise.” 

“Oh.” Then, “The _first_ place?” 

Derek grinned at him. “Yeah. This is only phase one. There are three stages to this evening’s events. Ready?” 

Stiles gave him a strange look, unreadable to Derek, before huffing out a breath. “As I’ll ever be, I guess,” he said as he slipped on the mask. “I can’t believe you’re depriving me of another source of sensory input.” 

Derek froze in the process of putting the Camaro into reverse. Just as he was about to panic and rip the mask from Stiles’ face, the boy blindly reached out—at least he knew the improvised blindfold worked—and grabbed Derek’s knee. 

“It was just a joke, Derek.” He squeezed and then said, “Don’t worry about it. I’m not. Let’s go!” 

Derek hoped it was just a joke; he hadn’t even thought about taking away Stiles’ sight. Well, obviously he hadn’t wanted Stiles to see where they would be going, but that was more of an oblique thought than an actual realisation of what he would be doing. 

Stiles kept up an incessant chatter while he was driving, factoids about the world’s serial killers and other things. It definitely wasn’t a bad thing; Derek liked that Stiles wanted to fill the silence. Now Derek knew that the world’s highest flying bird was known as a griffin. He was sure that Noah and Elijah would love to hear about that. 

Derek’s hand found Stiles’ and laced their fingers together while he drove. His thumb rubbed small circles, and Derek just revelled in the contact. 

One thing that Derek noted was that whenever they slowed down for a stop sign or turned down a different street: Stiles would pause in whatever he was saying and tilt his head. It was cute more than it was puzzling, though Derek was curious. 

When they reached their destination, Stiles turned his head toward Derek and slipped off the night mask. Keeping his eyes on Derek, not looking around at all, he asked, “Why are we at Beacon Hills Comics?” 

Derek gaped at the boy in his passenger seat. “How…?” He couldn’t even form the question. 

Stiles grinned at him. “Well, we’re obviously on Third—I know this town like the back of my hand—and there are only three things on Third: a gas station, a crafts store and the comic book store.” He chuckled at the flabbergasted expression on Derek’s face. “And unless you need to fill up—which I applaud your lack of foresight if that’s the case—or have a hankering to make a scrapbook together—and then I might need to rethink this date—then we must be at one of my favourite places in this city.” 

“Will you ever cease to amaze me?” Derek asked once he was able to pick up his jaw from the floorboard. 

“God, I hope not; where’s the fun in that?” Stiles countered before turning to look outside the car for the first time. He pumped his fist in what must be victory. “I knew it! But that brings me back to my first question.” He turned back to Derek, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“Let’s just go inside, Stiles.” 

Stiles quirked an eyebrow and shrugged, releasing his seatbelt and exiting the vehicle. “Whatever you say, boss.” 

“Smell that?” Stiles asked once inside the doors. At Derek’s perplexed look, he sang quietly, “I can show you the world…” 

Derek laughed, loud enough to draw the attention of the proprietor and the couple of other patrons. He blushed, ducking his head, and placed his hand on the small of Stiles’ back and steered him toward the rear of the store. 

“I haven’t been here in forever, dude. I spent the rest of my money on that doorbell thing and… Well, I had to quit my job for obvious reasons, and Dad hasn’t believed in allowances since I was fifteen, unlucky for me.” 

Derek saw Stiles taking everything in as they walked down the aisle filled with books—comics and graphic novels and regular fiction—and other sorts of merchandise. His hands twitched as though he wanted to reach out and touch. 

Stiles looked at him expectantly when Derek stopped moving, so Derek said, “Well? Go crazy!” 

“What?” Stiles blinked at him. 

“Pick out some things, Stiles. On me.” 

“Derek… I’m not a charity case,” Stiles whispered sullenly. 

Derek shook his head. “Of course not. Consider it a late Christmas present.” 

“But I didn’t get you anything,” Stiles said, a small pout settling in his lips. Derek wanted to kiss it away. He realised nothing was stopping him, so he bent his neck and pressed his mouth to Stiles’. He felt him sigh into the kiss, and Derek smiled against his lips. 

“You saying yes to my asking you out is gift enough,” he said, searching for something on Stiles’ face, anything that would say what he’s done here was a good idea. 

Suddenly he pounced and Derek had his arms full of Stiles, who was peppering his neck and jawline with small kisses, slightly more PG than what Derek had done the other night. But it still felt amazing and Derek found himself shivering at his touches. 

“If I wasn’t such a classy gent, you’d be getting something tonight,” Stiles whispered into Derek’s ear, pulling the lobe between his teeth. He released Derek and winked. “I don’t know if you’ve realised what you’ve gotten yourself into; I could easily spend hours here.” 

Derek just stood there, completely dazed at what Stiles had said. He hadn’t been expecting anything, nothing at all, of course; but to just hear that Stiles had at least been thinking about it, about being physical with Derek… It made his blood boil and his thoughts run wild. 

He came back to himself when Stiles grabbed his hand, leading him through the rows and rows of merchandise. Stiles stopped suddenly with a gasp, and Derek almost ran right into him. He let go of Derek’s hand, and Derek made a small noise of protest at the loss. Stiles reached out and slowly picked up a clear polycarbonate case that held a comic book. 

“Oh, my god.” He looked like he was about to kiss the plastic as he ran his fingers over it. “Do you know what this is?” 

Derek shrugged when Stiles looked at him. “I don’t know anything about comics.” 

It was the wrong thing to say. Or maybe it was the shrug. All he knew was that Stiles’ expression faltered and fell, and he put the plastic case back on the shelf. He’d do anything to wipe that look from Stiles’ face; the one that told him Stiles felt he needed to hide himself from the world—to hide whatever he was thinking, whatever he was feeling. 

“We can go. Let’s go,” Stiles said, turning away and moving down the aisle. 

Derek grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. “No, Stiles. What I meant was I don’t know _much_ about comics. I know that it’s one about Spider-Man, but why is it in a case?” 

Stiles stared at him for a long minute, but as the seconds ticked by and Derek didn’t say anything else, whatever Stiles had been waiting for, his expression brightened. Then he launched into a discussion about a French guy named Coipel and how that issue was the 700th, and look! It was inscribed by Stan Lee himself! Stiles had then proceeded to tell him it was nearly two hundred dollars, and while Derek’s eyes were bugging out of his face, he laughed and said that it was great and all, but he believed comics are meant to be read, not collected. (“Of course, that could just be the poor version of me talking…” he’d said with a chuckle.)

Derek let the words wash over him, just content to hear Stiles talking. He honestly didn’t care about comic books, and he didn’t think there was anything wrong with that; he was completely happy with the fact that they made Stiles happy. That was enough for him to be there with his guy as he basically ran around the store, talking about his favourites and where he thought they were going and his different theories. 

Then Derek noticed that this was the third time he’d been led down this row, each time more slowly than the last. Sometime during their—looking at his watch, Derek realised they’d been in the store for more than an hour—visit, Stiles’ hand had found his again, and Derek used it to pull him to a stop in the middle of the aisle. 

“There’s something here that you like. What is it?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles answered, but his eyes gave him away. He glanced to his right quickly before looking back at Derek. 

Derek snatched a hefty book from the shelves, the only thing near where Stiles had looked that he’d be interested in. It was some sort of collection for Batman, multiple comics in one, surrounded by a lot of figurines and other stuff. 

“Do you want this?” he asked earnestly, flipping it around to show Stiles. The way his eyes gleamed when he looked at the cover was answer enough for Derek. He tucked it under his arm and made his way toward the front of the store and its lone register. 

“Wait! Derek! It’s too much. I can’t let you get that for me.” 

Derek turned to face Stiles. “What’s in a price tag?” he asked, shrugging, telling him that it didn’t matter; he wanted to do this. “Is it special to you?” 

“It’s like the only collection I don’t have that DC has published for the Batman…” he whispered, looking down at his shoes and picking at a button. 

Derek tilted Stiles’ head back up with a finger under his jaw. “Then it’s worth it.” 

Stiles grinned and Derek made his purchase, ignoring the odd way the guy at the cashier was talking to him. He glanced at Stiles, whose lips were a thin line, silent through the entire transaction. He grabbed the bag—the guy made an emphatic point of mentioning the receipt that was in there—and took Stiles by the hand back to the car. 

“Something wrong?” Derek asked when they were settled back in the Camaro. Stiles’ hands were clutched tightly around the bag, knuckles turning white. 

He reached inside and handed him a slip of paper. “Look at the receipt.” 

“Beacon Hills Comics. Batman collection, forty five bucks,” he read. “Yeah, I’d figured you would be an expensive date. It’s why I brought Laura’s plastic,” he joked. 

Stiles grabbed the receipt from his hands and turned it over. Penned on the backside was a set of digits: a local phone number. “He gave you his phone number?” Derek was confused. 

“He was hot! Of course it wasn’t for me. He was flirting with you and gave _you_ his phone number?” Stiles’ tone was annoyed. At what, Derek wasn’t sure. 

“Me?” Then, “You thought he was hot? I don’t want you going back there anymore.” He grinned at Stiles, hoping to lighten the mood. 

Stiles shot him a look. “You’re not funny.” 

“Stiles, I honestly didn’t notice. I didn’t even look at him.” 

At that, Stiles deflated a little. “You didn’t even—. How did you get through life before me?” 

“I don’t think I did,” he said, reaching out a hand to brush his knuckles along Stiles’ jaw. It was finally the right thing to say; Stiles blushed and looked at him through his eyelashes. 

Then he snatched the receipt out of Derek’s hand again and ripped it into tiny pieces and let them fall into the bag. “All right. I feel better now. Phase two? Of…?” Stiles prompted. 

“Nothing doing,” Derek said, wisely deciding to not say anything about Stiles’ actions, starting the engine and gunning it to get to the next stop. Stiles harrumphed next to him, but seemed glad that Derek didn’t ask him to put on the blindfold again. 

He pulled into the parking lot of an unassuming diner. The lot was almost filled with cars, with it being a weekend evening. Derek smiled gratefully at the look on Stiles’ face when he put the car into park. 

“How did…? This is my favourite place to eat.” 

“I heard that this was the best place to get a burger in town. Among other things.” He hesitated before deciding to confess. “And I’ve heard you raving about it a few times.” And if a few times actually meant more like a dozen and a half, what was a white lie? 

“You heard me?” Stiles asked, though something told Derek it was more rhetorical than anything. “Huh.” 

Instead of saying anything more, he hopped out of the car before Derek could come around and open the door for him. Derek met him on the sidewalk, and Stiles wrapped his arm around Derek’s waist. Derek hummed, pleased at the easy affection between them; he just hoped it would continue and not wear off. 

“Ah, good evening, Mr Hale, Mr Stilinski. Your table is right this way.” The hostess/waitress combo, Wendy he thought her name was, said as they entered the restaurant and led them to a slightly more secluded corner—as private as one could get and still be in a diner. 

“Your first plate of curly fries are on their way,” Wendy said, placing their menus on the table. 

Shucking off his jacket, Stiles sat down across from Derek in the booth. “This place sure has changed since the last time I’ve been here. Reservations? Candles on the tables?” He paused, eyes darting over to Wendy like he had just remembered something. “Wait—did she just say ‘curly fries’?” 

“Endless curly fries, actually,” Derek said, grinning at the way Stiles’ jaw dropped. But then Derek frowned slightly. “Do you not like it?” 

“Like what?” he asked, taking a sip from the water that a bus boy had just set on the table in front of the two of them. 

“The candles, our own table, the curly fries…” Derek hoped he didn’t look as pouty as he sounded to himself. “I thought I’d try my hand at the best of both worlds. You know, romancing it a little with the candles…” 

And that brought out _his_ smile, the one just for Derek. “Dude, you had me at ‘endless curly fries.’ I didn’t even know that was on the menu!” 

“It’s not. It helps to grease a few palms, though.” 

“Seriously, though, I’m easy. Well, not like _that_ easy, but you know what I mean. You didn’t have to pull out all the stops.” He reached over and pressed his fingers around and over Derek’s wrist, right at his pulse point. “But I’m really glad you did.” 

When their food finally arrived along with the second plate of curly fries—Derek had helped devour the first—Stiles popped a question for which Derek was wholly unprepared. “So, you’ve been spying on me, huh?” 

Derek choked on a bite of his bacon burger—it really was the best he’d ever eaten. “I’m sorry?” 

“You said you overheard me talking about this place. You knew about my love for comic books—though that one is slightly more obvious. There have been other things, too.” He stuffed a couple fries into his mouth before he continued. “How long have you been collecting intel on me?” 

Derek spluttered, trying to buy more time. Looked like it wasn’t going to be today that he got the upper hand on one of the Stilinski men. “I haven’t been spying on you. Or getting intelligence—” He stopped at Stiles’ chuckle at his unfortunate choice in words, glowering a little for whatever it was worth. “I admit that I’ve overheard some things, by pure accident. You have to know that you can be really loud when you talk about something you really like.” 

Stiles smiled like he had caught Derek in something. Derek placed his face in his hands when he realised what he’d said. 

“And there’s another. If you know that, what else do you know, hmm?” Stiles’ voice was teasing, in the good way. He sounded pleased, if anything. He sighed, then. “I suppose I should admit something, too… To be fair, you know?” 

Derek grinned at Stiles’ sheepish expression. “If you’re talking about fair, you should confess two things.” 

Stiles grunted in what Derek took as an affirmative. “Well, you were the one I watched during the games I was benched at—which was all of them, basically. Admittedly, I’m sure you were used to all eyes on you, because you’re the captain and the star player and all that.” Stiles blushed a deep red, and Derek wanted to see more evidence on just how deeply that blush runs on his skin. “But the way you played… It was amazing, man. At first, I hated you for it. But then you turned out to be this really great guy and an awesome captain. So I couldn’t hate you for being such a good player, obviously. Where’s the justice in that? 

“And you always seemed to put Scott with me during practices, for some reason. By the way, he’s probably always going to be mad at you about that, dude. I heard so many rants about having to practice with the second stringers, you wouldn’t believe. Well, overheard, I guess. He always thought I was out of earshot or out of the locker room; he never said anything to me about it. He’s—uh—he’s good like that, I guess.” Hurt flickered across Stiles’ face before he could control it. He tried to cover it by shovelling curly fries into his mouth and then sliding the plate toward Derek. 

Derek moved his own plate away, since he was done with the burger, and because this was…interesting to say the least. He grabbed a couple fries and then moved the plate away. “I only did that because a) he’s a good player and I thought he’d be a good influence for you guys, and b) he was your best friend.” 

“It’s cool, man. Maybe tell him that? I don’t know. Well, about the influence thing.” 

Derek cleared his throat. He knew an opening when he saw one. “Do you—” 

Stiles cut him off. “Maybe I’ll tell you about him someday. Whenever I figure it out myself…” 

Derek nodded, content to let it slide with the confirmation that Stiles wanted to talk about it. “And the second?” 

Stiles laughed, full and loud. “Well, you know I know you work at the station, right? Every time I worked up the courage to try and talk to you, you’d disappear! I even engineered some days so that Dad would forget his lunch and would attempt to buy something, and I would show up with some salad or something—he has to eat healthily; youth’s not on his side anymore, you know—but after the last time… I think it was a couple weeks before my brain went crazy, I just gave up. Took it as a sign.” 

It was Derek’s turn to laugh, a little more ruefully though. “You’re kidding. I disappeared because you made me so nervous that I would mess things up. I spilled coffee… One time I even superglued my hand to my pants—not there, you idiot, stop laughing!—and had to go home. I can’t even remember why I was using superglue.” 

“Wow. I, the lowly Stilinski, made the great Hale nervous. I feel like I have all the power now. Should I try and beguile someone else to fall under my spell?” 

Derek basically growled at the idea of Stiles calling himself low and his considering enchanting someone else, even in jest. He saw Stiles reach for his pocket as Wendy laid down their bill, but Derek grabbed his hand. 

“You can pay next time. If you want,” he said, handing the waitress his card. 

“Only two stages in, and you want another date? How forward of you, Mr Darcy.” Stiles blinked, thinking. “Wait, does that mean that there are only two stages? Is the night already over, then?” 

“Nothing gets passed you, does it? Or so you’d think. But no, there’s one more.” He reached for Stiles’ coat and slipped it over his arms. He dipped his head and kissed Stiles on the neck and cheek before he flipped up the collar. 

Once outside after he’d signed the receipt and left a generous tip, he handed Stiles his keys. 

“What’s this?” Stiles asked, moving the keys around in his palm. 

“Get in and drive us to the school.” 

“Me? Driving?” A beat. “To the school?” 

“And don’t kill us.” 

Stiles didn’t need any further convincing. He hastily opened Derek’s door for him then rushed over to the other side, muttering something about never thinking he’d get to drive a car ever again, let alone one like this. 

Turned out that Stiles was a great driver, even weeks without practice and in a new, unfamiliar vehicle. He was surprisingly quiet, and Derek wasn’t sure if he it was because he was concentrating or because he was just luxuriating being behind the wheel again. 

Derek told him to pull into the drive that led more toward the lacrosse field than it did the school. When Stiles put the Camaro in a spot, he turned and deadpanned, “This isn’t where you and your family of serial killers murder me, is it?” 

“Get out and pop the trunk, dork.” 

Inside was a bunch of lacrosse gear. Stiles scratched his head. “We’re playing lacrosse?” 

“Yeah? I mean… I thought you missed it.” 

“God, do I ever. Let’s go!” He grabbed a crosse and ball and ran toward the field. 

Derek laughed, grabbed his own gear, including a helmet for what he was planning, and followed. 

Stiles was standing toward the centre of the field when he passed through the bleachers, hopping between one foot and the other, jacketless. “Oh, good. You’re goalie, then.” 

Derek nodded and made his way to one of the goals. He raised his hand, thumb up, not sure if Stiles would be able to see him say anything at that distance, then shoved the hand into a goalie’s glove. 

Stiles tossed the ball into the air a couple times, catching it just before it landed on the ground—but it seemed on purpose, like he was showing off. _Two could play at that game,_ Derek thought. 

“Okay, I’m ready! And no captain superpowers!” 

Derek gave a large, exaggerated nod to show his readiness, chuckling inside the helmet at Stiles’ remonstration. 

He easily caught the first one, and the second, and several after that. Stiles didn’t seem to be getting frustrated at all, but Derek could sense his determination was growing. Yet another thing to add to the ever lengthening list of things for which to admire the boy coming at him. 

Stiles feinted left and Derek heard a whoop called out in victory after the small _swish_ of the rubber ball hitting the net of the goal. After that, Stiles’ confidence grew and so did his skill. He made several honest goals, and some that were a little less than honourable, when he tried distracting Derek with inane chatter. What’s worse was that Derek fell for it more than once! 

All’s fair in love and war, right?

And then Stiles started laughing for no visible reason. Derek thought it was just another tactic to try and get around him at the goal, but Stiles made no move toward him and his laughter wasn’t lessening. 

Derek asked a few times, fruitlessly, what in the world was going on, and then made his decision. He stripped off his helmet and his shoulder and chest pads and tossed them on the ground. Then started jogging to where Stiles was standing. He sped up moments before impact and tackled the boy, flipping them before they hit the ground so that Stiles was on top. 

Both of them landed with grunts, and the breath was knocked out of Derek. He raised his head a little and saw—and felt, the way Stiles was draped over Derek’s body—that he was still laughing! He realised there was no other recourse—and he definitely wasn’t going to complain that there wasn’t any—he lightly fisted his hand in Stiles’ hair and dragged his head up to bring their mouths together. 

His plan was an immediate success. Stiles ceased laughing, instead moaning into the kiss and licking into Derek’s mouth. Derek felt him rearrange himself, to the point that he was now straddling Derek’s hips, hands bracing him on Derek’s chest. His fingers brushed sensitive nipples, and Derek arched his back. 

He felt Stiles smile into the kiss and then the guy was working his way down Derek’s jaw and neck, leaving behind a path of nips and suction that it was all Derek could do not to writhe under him. “Mmm, that’s interesting.” Then he moved his body again, grinding his hips down, rubbing their clad erections together. Stiles set Derek’s nerves on fire with everything he did. 

“Why were you laughing?” Derek asked breathlessly. 

“Hmm?” Stiles blinked a few times before he came back to himself and he rolled to the side to lie beside Derek on the hard ground. “Oh! It’s freezing out here, dude, and we’re playing lacrosse. I’m about to freeze my balls off.” 

Derek could see his point. It was a great idea, just not in the best environment. He turned and kissed him again before he said, “They—and you by extension—seem pretty warm to me.” Then he got up and held out a hand to pull Stiles to his feet. 

“Smug asshole,” Stiles muttered fondly before picking up his lacrosse stick and the ball. “Just because I seem all hot and bothered now…” 

Derek laughed again and ran to get his gear, jogging to catch up to Stiles who was making his way toward the Camaro. He looked a little lost in thought, so Derek let him be, placing the stuff in the trunk and then getting in. He started the car to get the heater going and then turned to face Stiles, a little surprised to see him already looking back at him. 

“So it’s still kinda early,” he said. “And this is a great car… I wonder what the view is from the back seat.” He bit at his bottom lip. 

“Is that…” Derek coughed to clear his throat. “Is that a line?” 

“So what if it is? Are you gonna do something about it?” 

Derek had never moved so fast in his life, clambering over the gear shift, cranking up the heat on his way, to settle himself in the back of his car. Stiles followed, shrugging off his jacket, grinning cheekily at him, completely pleased with himself. 

Derek was pleased that he resumed his earlier position, straddling Derek’s hips as he pushed him back. One knee was on the seat and the other helped to brace him from the floorboard. It was slightly cramped, but it meant that there was less space between them, and Derek was all about that. 

Derek’s lips were bruised and his neck was sore in all the right ways minutes or hours—Derek didn’t know and he didn’t care—later. He realised as Stiles bit down on one of his collar bones—Derek bucked his hips at the sensation it sent flying up his spine—that sometime Stiles had managed to unbutton all of Derek’s shirt. Stiles groaned, fingers working at one of his nipples; his mouth quickly followed, his tongue laving over the pebbled surface, teeth gently worrying at it. 

“Oh, my— _fuck!_ ” Derek bucked again. 

Stiles answered with another moan. His hand was wrapped tightly—but not uncomfortably—around Derek’s neck, fingers pressing into all the marks he’d created earlier. He ground his hips down again, and then again, and he kept moving, hips undulating against Derek, friction sending shivers up and down Derek’s body. 

Derek’s breathing got quicker, and Stiles seemed to notice. He didn’t slow his gyrations, but he asked, “Should I…” before his breath gave out. 

Derek shook his head, then realised that Stiles was looking at him, waiting. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.” 

If anything, Stiles moved more, moving his body so that his hips and their erections ground together harder, harder. Stiles tightened his grip on Derek’s throat, and he bit down on the other side, right over his pulse. 

Derek cried out and that was it for him. He lifted his hips one more time to meet Stiles’ downward thrust and then he was spilling into his pants. By the way Stiles was shuddering, hips faltering in their motion, he had followed Derek over the brink. 

Derek hissed when Stiles’ smaller movements became one too many, and he stopped moving all together. But then he captured Derek’s mouth in a filthy kiss, tongue forcing its way between Derek’s lips. Derek’s dick twitched in appreciation, but no more than that. 

Finally Stiles pulled back, eyes closed, breathing just as heavily, and rested his forehead on Derek’s. He blindly pulled the ends of Derek’s shirt together and started buttoning them. “Looks like I’m not quite as classy the gent I thought I was,” he said wryly. 

Derek laughed and took control of dressing himself. When Stiles opened his eyes, he said, “Don’t worry. You’re still amazing in my eyes.” 

Stiles blushed, and extricated himself to move back to the front of the car. 

The drive back to Stiles’ house was done in silence again, but it was a good silence. Stiles’ hand found Derek’s again, and it was good. Stiles told him that his dad was going to be home tomorrow morning, and that the sheriff had asked to bring him to school so to not worry about giving him a ride. 

Maybe the goodnight kiss shouldn’t have rucked up Stiles’ hair so much or lasted another handful of minutes, but neither of them complained, so Derek counted it as another tick on the good list. 

Stiles waited on the porch, waving one last time, Derek saw as he drove off. 

_Okay, maybe now I can admit it… Just to myself._

************************

Derek pulled into the school parking lot, a giant grin on his face. He couldn’t wait to see Stiles again. He’d sent a couple texts the night before, after he’d returned home, and a couple that morning. He hadn’t received any replies, though. He wasn’t worried. He hadn’t really waited for any last night before going to bed himself, after taking a quick shower to clean himself after… And the one that morning had been as he was heading out the door; Derek was sure he was just spending time with his dad. 

He noticed a large group of students ringing the flagpole as he drove passed. Was it a prayer circle or something? Beacon Hills High wasn’t exactly known for those, but he supposed it might be. He was slightly early, after all—perhaps a little eager to see a certain someone. 

Derek walked up to the students surrounding the pole. He noted that none of them were holding hands or had their heads bent in prayer. Most of them had their phones out, pointing toward the pole, over other students’ heads or through gaps, either taking photos or recording a video. 

He pushed his way to the front of the crowd and gasped at what he saw. Someone, with a mask over their head, neck bent at a weird angle—Derek realised the guy was unconscious—was taped to the pole with duct tape. Whoever had done this had affixed a plastic pipe to the flagpole and taped the victim’s arms to the pipe. He was splayed out in a crude crucifix. The guy was shirtless—it had warmed up overnight, warm for winter and warm even for California, otherwise Derek was sure the guy wouldn’t be alive—and “FAG” was spelled out on his chest with red paint. 

Then Derek noticed the ground next to the flag. There was a not-so-small pool of drying, congealed blood underneath his right arm. There were cuts on his arm, several small ones, as though the criminal had just made another as soon as one clotted. That means it wasn’t paint… The word was painted on his chest with his own blood. 

He couldn’t believe these people hadn’t called the cops or an ambulance, or that no teachers had come by… He stepped closer to the guy, reaching out to remove the mask. Derek froze, looking more closely at his neck. He recognised that vein, those marks. He had made them. 

_Oh, god._ He ripped off the mask. 

_Stiles._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief moment when Talia and Derek are discussing potential abuse, but there is no actual abuse. Talia is just concerned and wants to know that he and Stiles are okay. There won't be any actual physical abuse aside from the bullying in this fic, and it will always be bullying, not domestic abuse or anything like that. 
> 
> As always, you can join me over on [tumblr](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com)!
> 
> P.S. I've become re-obsessed with Gilmore Girls, so there will be blatant references in this and future chapters. I'll bake you cookies if you can figure/point them out.


	11. Changing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which the game changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is, folks. I'm sorry it's taken so long, but to make up for it, it's just a few hundred words shorter than the previous one. Hopefully it lives up to the hype. 
> 
> A special, special thanks and shout-out goes to [messajo](http://www.messajo.tumblr.com) for her becoming my muse, my source of inspiration and motivation. She's the source of several little lines and scenes in this chapter, so you should go give her a thank you! =] 
> 
> Let's get on with the show! 
> 
> (P.S. There is a panic attack in this chapter. If that is something that bothers you: it begins after the lightning does, and ends shortly before the next line of asterisks. So if you skip past that, you'll be golden.)

Stiles awoke slowly, and he groaned as pain flooded his brain. Panic seared through his veins when he couldn’t move, then ebbed as he realised that his movements were sluggish with stiff, cramped limbs. Something pinched and pulled at his right hand, and he blinked blearily, turning his head in that direction, head feeling like it was swimming in the ocean, neck seemingly unwilling to hold its weight. 

Finally his visual acuity returned, and he realised he was in a hospital—it was an IV that had twitched when he’d tried to move his arm. Sensation from the rest of his body came back to him as he tried to take stock. Memory was beneath him right then, something flitting away when he tried to reach for it. 

Since it felt as though someone had tried to use a dull axe to split it open, his head made the top of the list. At another time, he might have chuckled at the cruel coincidence of his words. His arms and legs were aching, and there was a sharp pain at his left arm. Then there was an odd feeling on his left hand.

Stiles tried to turn his head slowly, but his muscles still didn’t want to cooperate with him, so it mainly flopped uselessly to the left. A hand was clutching his; that’s what the strange sensation was. A thumb was rubbing circles along his fingers and knuckles, and Stiles had to admit: it was nice.

His eyes travelled up, following the line of the arm that was connected to the hand that was latched onto his. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice was singing the “Dry Bones” song. _With the finger bone connected to the hand bone, and the hand bone connected to the arm bone…_

Stiles wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry—especially when he realised just who was holding his hand.

“Derek…” He croaked out. His throat felt scratchy and raw, disused. The hand on his tightened its grip. He groaned at the effort it took to say a simple name, more than slightly aghast at the pain shooting through his head.

Derek’s hand left his, and he instantly missed the contact. Stiles realised belatedly that Derek must have thought his reaction was due to his squeezing Stiles’ hand; he scrabbled his fingers on the rough hospital sheet, trying to reach Derek’s hand, but fine motor control was beyond him right then, and his hand just flopped uselessly along.

He groaned again, but that time in frustration more than anything else, though he still felt as though his body had been used as a battering ram. He muttered something under his breath. Derek seemed to finally understand, and he clutched Stiles’ hand again, maybe even more tightly than before—and Stiles was incredibly grateful.

Derek’s other hand cupped Stiles’ cheek and gently tilted his head so he was looking more fully at his face. “What’d you say?”

“Gaston…” Stiles almost laughed at the confused expression on Derek’s face. Almost. “Never mind that. Why am I here? What happened?”

Anger quickly followed by guilt flashed through Derek’s expression. “You don’t remember?” When Stiles slowly shook his head, he continued, “We’ve only been here about half an hour. They’re giving you warmed IV fluids, but other than that you were stable, so they didn’t want to wake you.”

Stiles honestly couldn’t remember what had happened, but right then, everything besides the most basic facts were fuzzy. It was as though he was in that cliché dream where he was trying to reach the furthest door down a corridor—all the answers would be there if he twisted the handle and opened it—but the hallway kept getting longer and longer.

“God, Stiles… You scared me so much.” Derek released Stiles’ hand and wiped at his face. “I found you taped to the flagpole at school. There was a mask on your head, so I didn’t immediately recognise you. There was this huge group of students circled around you—I hate them so much.”

Anger won out in the battle over Derek’s face. Stiles was ninety-five per cent certain the anger wasn’t directed at him. Then he gasped as he metaphorically reached the door and opened it. He remembered.

He remembered standing in front of the door to his house, waving stupidly to Derek as he drove away down the street. He remembered Matt coming round the corner like the creepiest creep to ever creep. He remembered Matt pressing a finger to his lips; he remembered shuddering at the vile feeling of Matt’s finger on his lips. He remembered Matt threatening everybody around him if he ever said a word; he remembered Matt saying that he would watch his friends and only surviving family member die before he himself was killed. He remembered Matt raising his arm, something glinting from the streetlight in his hand.

He remembered nothing after that. At least, nothing before waking up there in the hospital with Derek rubbing circles on his knuckles and fingers. He couldn’t believe that Matt would do something like that. The guy was obviously crazy, and he decided to let out his antisocial tendencies on Stiles, because that was apparently his life. He knew that in the beginning it had been because Matt was upset with the sheriff, and that Stiles was paying for the sins of his father--so to speak--but after last night he thought that the whole thing had twisted into some sick desire to just torture him. Like whenever Matt got a sadistic urge, his go-to target would be Stiles. 

And what might come of that actually scared Stiles. 

Something must have shown on Stiles’ face; Derek ran a hand up Stiles’ arm, bringing his attention back to the other boy. 

“Stiles?” he asked, face creased in worry. 

He tried to smile and laugh it off, but even to himself, it was forced. 

“Do you remember anything?” 

Derek’s expression brooked no nonsense, so Stiles knew he was caught out. 

The door suddenly burst open and Stiles’ dad rushed in, looking frantic, lines of worry crinkling his forehead. His expression lifted somewhat when his eyes fell on Stiles, but when his glance caught the IV on Stiles’ wrist, it turned to one of anger, frustration and intense concern, mixed in one. 

Then Stiles was shocked by what the sheriff did next. He raised his hands and signed at him. 

“ _All right?_ ”

And that was the straw that broke the proverbial dam--which he knew was an awful mixed metaphor, but he was emotional. The fear that he felt from remembering Matt’s threats, the anxiety he remembered from his consciousness rising briefly to the surface once overnight and finding himself again completely unable to move, the shock and joy that his father’s signing brought him… It all came crashing down at him at once. 

The next thing Stiles knew, he was enveloped in his father’s arms, and hot tears were splashing down his face. He was sobbing, trembling uncontrollably as his dad held him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stiles knew that this had been a long time coming. He had never really reacted much to the onslaught of Matt’s torments--the physical abuse, the “pranks,” if the term was used incredibly loosely. Instead, he had just taken it, accepted it. It was better him than someone else, right? That’s what he had told himself. As long as Matt wasn’t trying to hurt his father or anyone else at the school--and he’d never seen Matt taunt anyone else; not that the jerk was in attendance much. 

Stiles felt a hand on the back of his head, fingertips gently massaging, and he realised that he was mumbling apologies to his dad and Derek. Because he was--he was so fucking sorry that this was happening, that he was worrying them. He didn’t want that. 

He took a deep breath and was virtually transported back in time. His dad used to smell like oil and metal from working on the Jeep when it was still his mom’s; like freshly cut grass from mowing the lawn; like burnt food when he tried to cook for him and his mom. Now he didn’t smell like any of that. It was more like...stale air, from the cramped office at the station, or like bitter coffee from that ancient machine Stiles kept trying to get him to replace. It made Stiles’ chest tighten at the memories and how much things had changed. 

Stiles’ dad pressed a kiss to his temple, something he didn’t remember the man doing since the last time he came home crying from a scraped knee, before pulling back to look him in the eyes. Stiles was surprised to note that there were tears streaming down his father’s face, too. 

It was then that he resolved not to tell them anything near the truth. He’d gotten good at lying, after he was tired of coming home upset because of Jackson and all the others. Meeting Scott had definitely lessened that pain, but it was still hard to grow up and acknowledge that those he thought were his friends were in all reality not. 

“What happened?” His dad’s eyes slid over to Derek, and his brow furrowed in anger. “Was he responsible?” He made a move to get up from his spot, precariously balanced on the edge. 

Derek’s eyes widened and he took a step back. Stiles shot out a hand to grab his dad’s wrist where he was bracing himself on the hospital bed. 

“Dad, no. Dad!” He raised his voice when his father didn’t immediately pay attention to his protestation. “He’s the one who found me.” 

He gesticulated toward Derek, making grabby hands, and Derek’s expression changed from one of mild concern over Stiles’ dad’s sudden hostility towards him to one of hesitation. He reluctantly took Stiles’ hand. It was his dad’s turn to show some surprise before he carefully neutralised his expression. 

“Now, I know you know Derek as Derek the Intern, or Derek the Volunteer, capitalisation included,” he said. 

_Derek the Son You Wanted but Never Got,_ a voice in the back of his mind unhelpfully supplied, dredging up the fact that it had been a long time since his dad had even addressed him as his son, but had done for Derek almost constantly. He wasn’t bitter about it or anything, obviously. 

Stiles’ grin fell a little before he could get it back in place--hopefully neither of them noticed. “I’m here to introduce him as Derek the Boyfriend.” 

He squeezed Derek’s hand when it went slack and looked up at him. Derek’s face was a study in shock and surprise, but then his expression melted into one with a small, pleased smile when he looked back at Stiles. Had he doubted that Stiles would tell his father? 

He returned his gaze to his dad, whose expression had hardened if anything, his eyes still on Derek. Stiles could actually see his father counting how much ammunition he had on his person. He’d had no idea that his dad would be _that_ kind of father. Ironically, it caused a sort of pleased warmth to spread through him, before fear and the need to subvert settled. 

“Uh, Dad?” Stiles waited until his father was looking at him before giving him his best lopsided grin. “I bagged the Swede!” 

His dad closed his eyes and wiped a hand over his face, sitting on the chair next to the bed instead of resuming his place on the bed. 

“We’ll shelve that for another time. For now, just tell me what happened--what you can remember.” 

Stiles’ expression fell, both at his dad’s almost complete shunting aside of his relationship with Derek and at the reminder that he still had to talk about what had happened last night. 

“I--uh.” Stiles couldn’t cover his reflexive cough. “I don’t really remember much. Derek had just dropped me off after our ridiculously awesome first date--which, wait until I regale you with tales of my prowess.” 

Stiles realised that Derek’s hand was still in his after he had taken a seat in the chair opposite from his dad when it twitched violently. He glanced at the other boy and frowned at the grimace on his face. Then his face bloomed red when he replayed what he had said. 

“In lacrosse! I meant my prowess in lacrosse!” Stiles flopped his other arm rather uselessly against his dad’s side of the bed. 

To his credit, the only part of his dad that reacted was a small twitch of his eyelid. 

“Uh--anyway. He dropped me off, then I remember pain. Like, something hit my head. I think I kinda woke up once in the middle of the night, but I don’t know if that’s more of a dream or reality. And the next thing I remember is waking up here with Derek. So…” Stiles coughed again, trailing his words off as he came to the end of his relatively transparent lie. 

_I just hope nobody calls my bluff,_ he said to himself. 

The sheriff--and even Stiles called him that right then to himself, since he had adopted that persona again--rose and simply stared at Stiles for the longest time. Stiles hoped he wasn’t sweating externally; he had to resist pulling at the collar of his hospital gown. God, they’d stripped him? 

Finally the man sighed heavily, shoulders slumping slightly before he straightened himself. “I need to get back to the office to handle th--things.” He glowered at Derek. “Can I trust you to get him home.” The way he said it, it most certainly wasn’t a request. 

Derek’s expression tightened, like he was accepting some holy duty from a god itself, like he was being knighted, and he gave a short nod. Stiles wanted to slap him. He wasn’t some fragile doll, whose porcelain head was threatened to break at any moment. 

Stiles shook his head; the way his thoughts were unravelling, it was obvious that he hadn’t taken a dose of his meds recently. 

“Good. I’ll let Melissa know.” 

Before his dad could take a step toward the door--and without making a move to say goodbye to him!--the door once again burst open, startling Stiles into letting go of Derek’s hand. 

_Jesus. This would be the place to have an infarction…_

Stiles’ jaw dropped when he saw who was standing there, face stoic, lips set in a thin line. Scott. 

Scott, who apparently only had eyes for Stiles. But Stiles quickly glanced at his father, whose face was neutral if expectant, and Derek, whose only reaction was the quirk of an eyebrow. Damn him. 

Stiles really didn’t want to deal with this of all things right then. He was already bummed out over having to lie to the two closest to him, and he was pretty sure almost nothing good could come of any interaction between Scott and himself at that point. 

Derek must have read something on Stiles’ face. He turned to Stiles and signed, rather quickly--Stiles was impressed. 

" _If you want, I can speak for you._ "

Stiles felt as though an immense weight had been lifted from his chest. He gave a minute nod before returning his attention to Scott. Who was still just standing there. Well, Stiles wasn't going to be the first to break the silence, that's for sure. 

"I heard you were in the hospital..." Scott finally said. The unspoken again was left hanging in the air, loud and clear. 

Stiles vaguely wondered if Scott even realised his pretty poor choice in words. Then he just sat there, waiting for the guy standing front of his bed to say something else, something at least worth a response. 

"I thought I'd come visit." Again, words remained unsaid. "I came as soon as my mom told me what had happened." Scott scratched at his head, frowning. "Or at least as much as she knew, anyway." 

Stiles signed. Derek spoke. 

" _Thanks for your visit. But I'm about to check out._ " 

Scott's frown deepened, his eyes cutting over to Derek, who had stood. Derek was looking calmly back at Stiles'...friend, for lack of a better word, whatever they were then. But Stiles was able to tell that a large portion of Derek's attention was on Stiles, centred specifically on his hands and whether they were moving. He was poised to interpret whatever Stiles had to say; hell, he was doing more than just interpreting. It was like he was actually being Stiles' voice. 

Stiles restrained himself from smiling outright; he thought it would be a little out of place at that point. 

"Stiles." Scott cut himself off with what looked like a sigh. He ran his fingers through his hair, though it somehow magically returned to its original position. Stiles had always been jealous of that uncanny ability. "I..."

There was another pause where Scott visibly steeled himself. He squared his shoulders, facing Stiles directly, from where he had half turned when Derek had spoken for Stiles. He pointedly ignored his schoolmate and Stiles' dad, focussing solely on Stiles. Stiles wasn't sure that he wanted to bear the brunt of that look, much less what might follow.

Hadn't he said that nothing good could come of this meeting? Of course, it had been to himself, which lessened its portentous quality significantly, but he definitely remembered saying it. 

Scott took a deep breath. “Where were you when Allison thought we needed a break, man?” 

“ _What do you mean? Where was I?_ ” 

“I’m talking to Stiles, not you!” Scott directed at Derek, furious lines crossing his face. 

Stiles glanced at Derek and saw that he hadn’t reacted at all to the outburst. He was just waiting. He saw that Stiles was looking at him and there was a brief small uptick in the corner of his mouth before it disappeared. So Stiles signed again.

“ _You are talking to me._ ” 

Scott shook his head, probably in frustration and raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He looked back at Stiles. 

“Stiles, it takes two to get here you know.” 

Stiles wasn’t sure if there had been any painkillers administered to him, but that didn’t make sense. Did he mean it took him and another person to physically get to the hospital? Then it clicked. Scott was speaking metaphorically, about their friendship. 

Stiles’ hands twitched, and he had to focus on his breathing to control the red that had flared in his vision. He saw Derek glance at him, still ready to talk for him, and he reminded himself to go moderately slowly for the sake of clarity. 

“ _Where was I? Where was I?_ ”   
If Derek was puzzled by Stiles repeating the phrase, he didn’t show it. Though Scott seemed to be. He opened his mouth to say something, but Stiles made a slashing motion with his arm, something that helped direct his anger. Scott wisely took it to mean for him to shut up. 

“ _Where was I? Where were you? Where were you when I needed a ride in the pouring rain when my Jeep wouldn’t start? You never even called me back. I learned the next day that you were with Allison. I got yelled at for getting the carpet soaking when when I made it home to--_ ” 

He cut himself off, glancing at his dad--who didn’t know that part of the story; Stiles had just accepted the punishment, too worn out to care by then. That wasn’t the point. His dad didn’t need to know that it wasn’t a choice to have walked in the rain, and Scott didn’t need to know that he hadn’t had his wallet on him, so he’d had to walk home to get the canister of gasoline from the garage that was kept for the lawnmower. 

“ _Where were you when I got a bad grade in Harris’ class because you forgot you borrowed my homework? Where were you when I was sitting on the bench during games? Where were you on the days we used to eat junk food and pass out playing video games? Where were you on the day I woke up in excruciating pain? Where were you on the day I lost my hearing?_ ” 

Even though he had come to love the game, Stiles had joined because Scott had wanted it. The day they signed up for tryouts, Stiles and Scott had made a vow that if either of them was benched, the other wouldn’t play, no matter what Coach Finstock had to say about it. The very first time Scott had been called to the field--Stiles couldn’t remember why exactly; it most likely was because another player had been injured or winded or something--he hadn’t even hesitated. 

Stiles did feel at least partially responsible. Stiles hadn’t called him out on any of it. He’d just let Scott roll right over and past him. So Scott was right in that it did take two, but at the same time… Stiles had always been there. Stiles had waited for Scott to realise that his best friend was still there for him. But it seemed as though Scott had never looked back. 

And with that realisation, Stiles’ shoulders slumped. He felt bone-weary, as though ready to sleep for a millennium. He blinked back tears that he hoped hadn’t fallen. His hands clenched on his lap, the IV pulling a little at the skin on his wrist at the motion. He relished the twinge; it helped centre him. 

“I really don’t want to talk about this today,” Stiles said, whisper quiet. When Scott moved to speak, Stiles cut him off again. “Not today. Please just leave.” 

Stiles looked over at Derek again, frowning slightly in confusion when he saw that the guy still standing next to his hospital bed was breathing heavily, as though he’d just sprinted or something. He turned to glance at his dad and realised the man was taking steps toward Scott and saying something. 

“--son was polite in asking you to leave. If I have to say it, I won’t be.” 

Stiles didn’t know whether to be immensely pleased by his father’s action or morbidly embarrassed. He landed somewhere in the middle and just flushed a little. 

Stiles jumped a little when he noticed that Melissa McCall was standing in the doorway of the room, arms folded over her chest. How long had the woman been there? Hopefully she had just then shown up and hadn’t been present for his rather humiliating outburst. 

All bets were off when she looked at him with pity written all over her face, something he generally didn’t welcome, and then walked--no, march was a better descriptor--over to where Scott was standing and latched onto him by the ear. Stiles jaw almost fell to the floor in shock, and he couldn’t see what she was saying to her son as she pulled him forcibly from the room, but whatever it was had to have been mortifying from the look on Scott’s face. 

His dad reached out and squeezed his shoulder, gave him a small, tight smile, and left the room. Another nurse came in and told them both that he was free to leave; they had just been waiting for him to wake up on his own, and that they hadn’t found anything else to be worried about now that his cuts were stitched up--he glanced at his wrist and shot a look at Derek that told him he had a little more explaining to do; Derek had the decency to look at least a little abashed--and he wasn’t showing any true signs of dehydration or hypothermia. She told him to call his doctor should anything come up. After assuring her he would, she pointed out the wheelchair she had brought for Derek to use and then left for Stiles to get ready. 

Stiles gave Derek another look that told him if he even thought about insisting Stiles use the chair, he had another thing coming. Stiles wasn’t sure if they’d already reached that point in the relationship they had where Derek could read his expressions so easily or if he was just really good at pretending he did, but either way, Derek didn’t say a word as Stiles finished dressing himself. 

Stiles reciprocated the silence as he took a few tentative steps toward the door. His legs were already shaking, wobbling so much that they threatened to fell him. Maybe that chair was a good idea. 

With a huff, Stiles plopped down on the thing, making a face that _dared_ Derek to even think about saying something. Stiles sat back and off they went. Out toward the nurse’s station, Mrs McCall was still berating Scott whose shoulders were slumped against whatever she was verbally pummelling him with, but Stiles didn’t bother to try and figure out what she was saying. It wasn’t any of his business, and honestly, right then he couldn’t care less. 

When they arrived at the door, Derek hovered, uncertain. Stiles stood, wavering slightly less than before and looked over at him. 

Derek frowned. “I should have pulled the car around. Do you want to wait here?” 

Stiles waved off his apologetic expression and told him to just donate an arm to the cause, and when Derek happily obliged, he told him that the non-profit organisation thanks him for his generosity. 

And if Stiles held a little tighter to Derek’s shoulders, pleased at the warmth of Derek’s arm across his waist… Well, neither of them was complaining. 

*****************

Stiles sighed heavily and dropped heavily onto his bed without preamble. Who knew that trudging up the stairs would be so much work? He had shrugged off Derek’s offer for help, instead wanting to assert his independence again. He wasn’t used to being coddled, and he had a feeling that Derek was trying to make up for something. After Stiles had unapologetically refused his help up the stairs, he told him to go make a sandwich or something--that that the patient was starving and he needed a transfusion of food stat!--because it looked as though Derek was going to fall apart without doing something that made him feel useful. Stiles definitely needed to nip that in the bud before it got out of control. 

Stiles wasn’t a damsel in distress and he didn’t need to be treated like one, especially not to soothe the ego of a one Mr Derek Hale. 

Stiles must have closed his eyes, because the next thing he knew the bed was dipping to accommodate Derek. He felt something odd at his feet and realised that his--boyfriend, he was allowed to say boyfriend--was removing his shoes. He looked over and saw a plate with something that must have been a sandwich--apparently Derek wasn’t perfect at everything and Stiles could finally breathe an internal sigh of relief--and a glass of milk. How thoughtful. But he decided to take the route he was more familiar with and instead of thanking him for his kindness, Stiles said: 

“Are you undressing me, Derek Hale?” 

Derek paused momentarily and a flush crept up his neck at the implication, but he quickly resumed removing the other shoe and started on the socks. 

“You think that now we’re alone, you can have your dastardly wicked way with me?” 

Derek was apparently in control of himself then to control any blush, and he just shook his head exasperatedly--affectionate exasperation, Stiles hoped. 

“What if I want to have my wicked way with you instead?” 

Derek fumbled, slipped and yanked on one of Stiles’ toes instead. Stiles grimaced at the sharp spike of pain, but affected not to notice Derek’s flaming cheeks, not really wanting to focus on what they could--and probably did--mean. Derek turned away to put his socks and shoes on the floor near to the closet, looking as though he was gladdened by Stiles’ lack of commentary on his reaction. 

Stiles picked up the sandwich, leaning against his headboard, and took a bite. He really was famished, and he supposed the last time he ate something was at dinner last night. And apparently being tied up and unconscious overnight and lying in a hospital bed for an hour made him the poster boy for exhaustion. 

“Culinary arts aren’t your forte, then?” Stiles joked around a mouthful of bread, cheese and deli meat. 

Derek looked confused as he took a spot on Stiles’ bed, the latter scooting over slightly to give room. 

"It's a little dry. Usually you put a little mayo or mustard?" He laughed at the embarrassed look on Derek's face, as though he'd failed and the end of the world was coming. 

And that thought sobered him up quickly. He'd failed. Derek thought that he had failed--himself, Stiles or some toxic mixture of both. All signs pointed to that conclusion, and since Stiles was paying attention, it was like a neon sign. 

He put the plate back over on the side table and wrapped his fingers around Derek's wrist, getting a firmer grip and tugging until they were in the familiar position of lying face to face. Apparently that was going to be a thing for them. And as he felt Derek’s forehead bump gently against his, as he took comfort from the contact, he realised that he was more than okay with it. 

“Hey.” Stiles waited until Derek’s eyes were on his, then a light green in colour--he was always amazed by how often, how much and how quickly Derek’s eyes could change colours--before he continued. “You know that I don’t blame you, right?” 

Derek tried to look away, confirmation that Stiles had been correct in needing to have this conversation, but Stiles stopped him with a hand on his cheek, drawing Derek’s gaze back up to Stiles’ face. Normally, Stiles would have shied away from any sort of prolonged attention, especially from somebody like Derek, but he desperately needed Derek to understand the truth in all of this. 

“Nobody is to blame in this except for whoever did this.” 

Well, maybe he wasn’t being completely honest. Stiles was sure that Matt would blame him for being the son of the man who put him in what Matt said was his personal hell, so there was that. 

“Seriously, Derek--” 

He cut himself off and just moved his hand from Derek’s cheek to the back of his head and pulled him forward into a kiss. He tried to pour everything he was thinking and feeling into the kiss: forgiveness, even though he didn’t believe there was anything to forgive Derek for, it was more that Derek needed it for whatever reason; that it was okay, he was okay, he was there, not going anywhere. 

Whatever he put into it must have worked, he felt more than saw--kissing with eyes open was just weird, okay?--the tension drain out of Derek’s body, and the boy relaxed into the kiss. And then things got interesting. Derek rolled over until he was hovering over Stiles’ body, and his tongue swept into Stiles’ mouth. Derek moved his mouth like he was hungry and the cafeteria was serving Stiles as the entree. 

Oh, God, it was definitely time for his meds if his mind was thinking crap like that. 

As much as he was definitely enjoying the sudden turn in events, as much as his body was most definitely responding--when did his hands find their way to Derek’s waist?--he pulled back. As much as his pillow would let him, anyway. 

Stiles licked his lips, and he wasn’t immune to the thrill that went through him as Derek tracked the movement. He cleared his throat lightly, and Derek’s eyes shot to his, his dilated pupils shrinking the green in them to almost nothing. 

“Sorry,” he murmured. “But you’re probably due back at school, yeah?” 

Derek slumped and his head fell onto Stiles’ shoulder, followed by the rest of his dead weight covering him. 

Stiles grunted and shoved lightly at the other boy’s shoulders, though in reality he loved the way it felt. Since it was there, he turned his head and nipped just a little more than lightly at Derek’s neck. He yelped and rolled, but in the wrong direction and flopped to the floor. 

“Don’t worry; I do that twice a week on average.” 

Derek’s head popped up with his grumpy face on; Stiles couldn’t help it. He peppered little kisses along Derek’s mouth, the corners, along his jaw, until he felt it melt into a smile. 

“It’s not like I’ll be alone.” 

Less than a minute into the drive to Stiles’ house, he’d said that they were being tailed. He’d crossed his arms and rolled his eyes, slouching in the front seat. Derek had taken a look in his rearview mirror. 

“By a squad car? Are they gonna pull me over?” he’d asked Stiles, turning his head and gripping the wheel until his knuckles turned white self-consciously. 

Stiles had just laughed. Apparently that was what his dad had to take care of back at the office. He must have radioed whomever was on patrol and told them to trail the Camaro. It was as though he were under house arrest. He was certain that if he looked out the window, the car would still be there. 

But he didn’t. Derek still looked reluctant to leave, so he pushed the comforter back and slipped under the sheets. It was a little weird in his jeans, but it’s not like that would be the first time he ever fell asleep in them. He’d most likely take them off after Derek left. But not before, definitely not before. 

He patted the comforter. “See? Safe and sound.” 

Derek rose up and pulled the comforter more snugly around him.   
Stiles blushed. “Oh, my god. Derek Hale just tucked me in. What’s next, you’re gonna check under the bed for the boogie man?” 

Derek just smiled at him smugly. Then he grabbed the nightstand for leverage and did just that. Stiles laughed as he walked over to the closet to reveal nothing but a giant mess. 

“Well, now you know what I do whenever I clean my room.” 

Derek was the one to laugh that time, and it was good. It looked better on him than lines of worry, and it felt better in Stiles’ chest--the knowledge that somebody wasn’t worrying over him. 

Derek left after another quick kiss, on the cheek so neither of them got the urge to become another distraction, and Stiles didn’t have anything better to do than to sleep. It wasn’t long before the exhaustion took over and the darkness clung to his mind. 

***********************

He woke up less than an hour later, the remnants of fear from a nightmare falling away shortly after he opened his eyes. Well, it was obvious he wasn't going back to sleep if that was what he had to look forward to, not right then anyway. 

He checked his phone and saw that he had a handful of messages from Derek. Enough to make him think that it was abundantly clear the guy wasn't paying any attention. It was Monday, so he was due in Harris' class by then. He sent back a reply that told him he'd better have good notes; who else was he going to copy from if not Derek?

Derek responded with a sarcastic "Yessir." At least Stiles hoped it was sarcastic. 

So, since he was awake... What did he want to do? He thought briefly about having some Stiles time, but shoved it aside. He wasn't really in the mood for it, not since he'd realised that getting off with another person involved was so much better. 

Instead he messed about on the internet. Facebook was boring--nobody talked to him on there, and he'd hidden those people who had felt obliged to add him or wanted a larger friends number from his feed. Jumping through links on Wikipedia only brought a brief respite from his boredom. 

When he realised he wasn’t having fun with that anymore, he shot off another message to Derek. He was pretty sure that he’d get shit for it being less than ten minutes after he’d told him off for texting in class.

_[Message from: Derek Hale]_   
_Ten minutes later. I’m really that irresistible, huh?_   
_[Today, 10.24]_

Stiles sent back a snarky reply, telling Derek to stow it and entertain him. Derek promised that he’d be his entertainment starting at lunch, but right then Harris was going over stoichiometry and he wasn’t quite adept at that yet. 

He laughed over the coincidence that he would, of course, miss the one lesson he could teach to the class. He stood up from his desk and glanced outside the window. Sure enough, the deputies were still outside. Seeing them sit out there gave Stiles an idea for a good distraction. 

Stiles made his way out of his room, but he paused at the top of the stairs. He didn’t remember the task ever being that daunting, though he could vaguely recall being afraid to use them alone at night. He took a deep breath and just did it, only stumbling once he reached the bottom. He chuckled at his foolishness; his legs were fine. 

He flicked the coffeemaker on after checking that fresh grounds were in it, and he readied the oven for his next move. When the pot stopped hissing and gurgling at him--the thing was ancient and his father wouldn’t listen that one day it was going to take over the world in its anger, starting with the massacre of the Stilinski men--he grabbed two thermoses from their old camping days and filled them up. 

He hoped they liked their coffee black and weren't closeted caramel macchiato or French vanilla frappe fans. He and his dad weren't big on all the extras. He enjoyed his coffee simply, like he'd learned from watching his dad drink it every morning. His mom had never had a taste for the bitter brew that Stiles sometimes hailed as the nectar of life, manna from heaven and all that jazz. 

At the end of his internal monologue and slightly bittersweet walk down memory lane, Stiles realised that he was quickly approaching the squad car with its two officer occupants. He hoped they appreciated this and didn't think it was weird. It wasn't exactly cold out but Stiles generally appreciated having a warm drink to sip on to pass the time. 

He rapped his knuckles on the window and jumped when both of them started violently. They had been half asleep! He didn't really blame them; looking at a house at which nothing was occurring couldn't exactly be the most riveting of duties, but was it seriously that difficult to find good help around there?

Stiles was of half a mind to turn around and take the coffee back before the obvious dawned on him: the drinks were exactly what they needed. And maybe he could scrounge up a couple crossword puzzle books. Knowing his dad like he did, these two weren't going anywhere for a while. 

The deputy turned and rolled down the window. Stiles recognised him as one of the new guys--must have drawn the short stick--Deputy Jordan. The passenger he'd never met before. Then was as good a time as any to introduce himself. 

"Hey. I'm Stiles. Which I'm sure you obviously know since you're sitting outside my place on my dad's orders. I thought I'd bring you some coffee; looks like you need it." 

Both of them had the grace to look chagrined, and for that Stiles was willing to not mention it to his dad that he'd literally caught them sleeping on the job. Not that he wanted to do anything that would perpetuate the insanity that was his father's overprotectiveness. 

"Anyway, I also have some brownies about to bake in the oven, if you're interested?" One look at their faces told him everything he needed to know. He handed them the thermoses and tapped the roof of the car in an awkward goodbye--seriously, what was his life? 

Comfortably back in the kitchen, he quickly threw together a batter for fudge brownies. Then, on a whim, he decided to whip up a batch of blond brownies. Baking was another thing he did to try and remember his mom; she seemed to always be baking, always for some of the local stores to sell or give out as treats, or desserts for her family. He could remember her standing right there at the counter, swaying gently to whatever song she was humming. It was so easy to remember her humming, but he found it dishearteningly more difficult to remember her voice. 

Stiles took a step back before the tears could fall into the batter that he'd just mixed chocolate chips into, blinking rapidly to try to get them to stop from falling at all.

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and thanked the universe for sending an aptly timed distraction. It was Derek, asking if it was all right for him to show up after school for a study date. 

"Study date," yeah, because he was going to believe that line. Wasn't that what boys said? He was a boy. He could imagine himself using it. 

Batter in pans and in the oven, he set a timer on his phone and sat down on the couch to wait. When it finally buzzed, a toothpick told him they needed just a little more time in the oven, so he spent the time washing the dishes instead of loading them in the dishwasher, not noticing that he was humming. 

Stiles waited a bit longer for them to cool just a little so he could put them in Tupperware and take them outside. He dug around in their junk drawer and found not only the lid to the container that he needed, but also a puzzle book. 

The two deputies thanked him profusely when he brought them their snacks. He shrugged it off, feeling a little uncomfortable with their warm gratitude--he wasn't used to such outside attention, he guessed; except from Derek, and even then he still wasn't. 

When he got back inside, he was still bored, and a thought occurred to him. He slowly made his way upstairs and fished out his tripod from the depths of his closet. He hoped his camera still had some charge, if he couldn’t find his cord. He set it up, clicking the camera in place on the tripod and scooted back on his chair to put himself in frame. He pressed record. 

“ _Hi. It’s been a long time._ ” 

*********** 

Stiles must have drifted off on the couch after _Free Willy_ came on; the next thing he knew, his phone was buzzing in his hand and he was wiping drool from the corner of his mouth. He was half on and half off the couch, and he couldn’t readily tell which part of him was which. The phone told him it was half-three through bleary eyes. Then he noticed he had three missed calls and five notifications from his doorbell app. 

“Shit!” 

He fell the rest of the way off the couch and leapt up to get the door. 

Derek laughed when he swung it open and reached up a hand to mess with his hair. Stiles assumed it was a sight, and he just grunted in response. He bent down and lifted the welcome mat, revealing a key underneath; he pointed to it, then raised a finger to his lips and winked. 

Then he turned and walked to the kitchen. His mood needed caffeine. He hadn’t realised how much he’d looked forward to seeing Derek until he was standing in his doorway, but he still needed a boost. 

“You want some?” he called, bringing down two mugs without waiting for a reply. There shouldn’t be warmth settling in his stomach at how all of this was turning into something mildly domestic, but there wasn’t really any use in denying it. 

It didn’t help that Derek came up behind him, took one of the mugs from his hand and planted a kiss on the back of his neck. Stiles tried not to let his breath catch in his throat, clearing it instead as he turned around to find Derek with a soft, affectionate smile on his face. 

“I would love some,” Derek said, taking a chair at the table. He held the mug between two hands as though he was trying to steal its warmth then brought it closer to his face and took a deep breath. 

“Coffee aficionado, eh?” Stiles quirked an eyebrow at him as he sat down, too. 

“More like a Stiles aficionado,” Derek said with a smug look on his face. 

Stiles took a breath to try and calm his flaming cheeks. “You just went for it, didn’t you? Did it just pass your brain-to-mouth filter without any regard? I thought I was the only one capable of doing that.” He smiled at him to take any potential sting from his words. 

“I say what I mean,” he said simply before taking a sip of his coffee. 

Stiles looked into the living room so he didn’t have to look at Derek right then, and saw that Derek had brought in his backpack. He hadn’t noticed it when Derek was making his way inside, though really his mind only two thoughts at that point: _Derek’s here_ and _coffee._

“Oh, my god. You actually brought in your books. You really wanted to _study_.” He glanced back at Derek who had a bewildered look on his face. 

“That’s what I said, right?” 

“Well, yeah… But I thought it was just a _line_ or something. Like you meant to study ‘anatomy.’” And there he was, blushing again, waving his hand around like it was having a conversation of its own. Sometimes Stiles thought that Derek brought out the absolute worst in him, in terms of social skills. 

“And that would have worked on you?” 

If Stiles were forced to comment, Derek looked like he was more than just slightly interested in the answer to that question. He mentally flailed in search of a response that wouldn’t be epically mortifying. 

He was sure his attempt to shrug it off made him look like he had a nervous tic, but that was the only acceptable answer that came to mind. And then that stupid soft smile graced Derek’s lips again, and Stiles wanted to pull on his hair in frustration.

“Well, before we do... _anything_...I have a favour to ask. And it’s kinda serious.”

“You say that like you don’t think it’s possible for me to be serious,” Stiles protested. “I can be serious. No, really! It’s not my fault that random thoughts—oh, my god. What if the peddler at the beginning of _Aladdin_ was just Genie in disguise telling the world about the greatest boy in the world—the only boy to ask him what he wanted and to grant his only wish?”

Stiles bit his lip at the look on Derek’s face. Apparently it really was time to be serious. That couldn’t bode well for him.

“Okay, seriously now. I’m Stiles IX, King of Serious. Look, Derek, everything the light touches is serious.” He kept a straight face as he swept his arm out wide.

That finally brought a smile out on Derek’s face, and something in Stiles settled. Maybe whatever it was that Derek had to say wouldn’t be too bad. He probably just jinxed himself.

“My sister wants us to go out somewhere with her.”

Stiles made a face. “She willingly wants to put herself in a potential third-wheel situation?” He blinked and backtracked. “Not that I would ever act like that, but—”

“Stiles, no.” Derek shook his head. “She wants us to go on a double date with her and this guy.”

“A double date? I’ve had one date with you and now I’m supposed to go on a double with your sister? I don’t know, dude…” Stiles froze at Derek’s expression, his expression that told him…

“You already said yes, didn’t you?”

Derek looked up at him with an apologetic grin. Stiles groaned and plopped his head down on the table, not caring that it was with slightly more force than he had intended.

Something hit him on the head. Derek had crumpled up a napkin and thrown it at him.

“It won’t be that bad, right? You’ll still be with me.”

Stiles hoped that the look he gave Derek told him he didn’t believe in that thing called optimism.

“Do you even know anything about this guy? And I got the feeling from the last time I saw Laura that she wasn’t exactly president and chairwoman of the Stiles Stilinski Fan Club.”

“No. She didn’t even tell me his name. She says she wants me—and you by extension, I guess—completely unbiased because I’m to endorse him to the parents for her.”

Stiles frowned at that. “If he needs an endorsement, that’s probably bad news, right? Did I get or need one?”

Derek laughed. “No, I blindsided them with you basically. But Laura is weird. She thinks that they’ll be overly judgmental since she’s the oldest and has never really brought anybody home before, and that I’m the golden child…”

Stiles shot a look at Derek that told him he _was_ the golden child and to shut up about it.

“Fine. But you owe me. Big time. Grab a brownie,” he said, pointing to the Tupperware container of the remaining treats—less full than before he’d fallen asleep; his dad must have come home between shifts. “We’ll go _study”_

He made his way upstairs—they’d probably be more comfortable on the couch or at the table, but he’d always studied in his room, so that was where they’d go—leaving Derek’s backpack for him to bring. If he wanted to study, he could do the heavy lifting, as it were. He glanced outside when he reached his desk to grab his stuff; a storm was brewing, and it looked as though the shift had changed, because it was a different squad car out in front of his house.

Soon enough, they were surrounded by notecards, notebooks, notes, notes and more notes. Everything was notes and everything hurt. Stiles was on his stomach, feet up and clacking together—he’d seen Derek glance up every so often at them, but he’d yet to say anything, and Stiles was more than pro at slowly ratcheting up a person’s irritation. What better fun was there than testing boundaries?

But so far, Derek didn’t seem to have any buttons to push, and it was making Stiles pouty. Right then he was looking over a few of the chemistry equation problems from their textbook, checking Derek’s work. He’d finished all of his earlier on in the evening, just as the rain had begun its deluge against the roof. Stiles had only noticed because Derek had made an offhand comment about it, in between indecipherable mumbles about stoichiometry. He was aces at reading lips, but even he had his limitations.

Derek was pretty good at balancing the equations, but something seemed to keep throwing him off. He thought it was just making certain that he was counting the hydrogens—they were sneaky bastards, after all.

He was about to say as much to Derek when the other guy suddenly got up from the floor. He was answering a phone call, Stiles realised as Derek took a seat on his desk’s chair. He replaced Derek’s work on his book and returned to reading Derek’s notes on previous days’ lectures, trying to catch up, when he got an idea. A sly smile took over his face as he slowly stood, making sure he caught Derek’s attention.

Stiles stretched, raising his arms above his head and arching his back, which _accidentally_ raised the hem of his shirt. Stiles’ grin grew when he saw that Derek’s eyes were drawn to the patch of uncovered skin like metal shavings to a lodestone.

Reaching behind him with one arm, bending backward a little more, he used his other hand to casually scratch at his abdomen, pretending not to notice the flush that was obviously affecting Derek. Derek’s mouth closed suddenly as he came back to himself and quickly responded to whatever it was the person on the other end of the call had said.

_Well, that just won’t do,_ Stiles thought, not quite sure what had come over him to do whatever it could be called that he was doing, but he was all in, and he decided to just go for it.

He nudged Derek’s legs, and he must have been shocked into complacency because they snapped together with barely a tap. Before Stiles could think about it too much, he straddled Derek, effectively trapping him in that chair.

He rolled his hips right as he placed his mouth on the skin where Derek’s neck met his shoulder and sucked, wrapping his hand around the other side of Derek’s throat. He could feel Derek moan, but he cut himself off quickly.

Stiles traced the shell of Derek’s ear, breathing hotly as he made his way to the lobe, rolling it between his teeth before nipping it lightly. His other hand finally found the bottom of Derek’s shirt, and he curled his fingers so his nails would barely touch Derek’s skin as he made his way up his abdomen. He flattened his hand out, palm pressed against Derek’s chest, and his splayed fingers brushed against his nipple. Derek jumped, and Stiles grinned, laving his tongue against a spot that he thought might just leave a mark.

Suddenly a hand was pushing on Stiles’ chest, and he nearly toppled to the ground. Stiles clenched his jaw in anger and embarrassment, heat flooding his cheeks. He hadn’t realised from Derek’s rather opinionated bodily reaction that his machinations were that unwanted.

Then he saw that Derek was making a slashing motion across his throat and pointing to the phone still in his other hand.

“Yes, Sheriff. Of course, Sheriff,” Derek was saying. “I’m leaving soon.”

_Wait, what?_

Derek was talking to his dad? How…? Why…? Without further thought, anger channelled in a different direction—well, more like annoyance, but it was a righteous irritation!—he snatched Derek’s phone from him and deftly jumped onto the bed to get out of reach as his boyfriend tried to grab it back.

“Hello, _Sheriff_? I’d like to report a disturbance of the peace and a potential stalker. It seems like this _old man_ is bothering my guy on the phone.” Stiles paused, calculating how his dad would most likely respond. “And don’t you roll your eyes at me. Yeah, I know you. Even if Derek is your intern, this is an absurd and abhorrent abuse of power, using your deputies to spy on the people I have over, and then calling them while they’re here. I’m of half a mind to actually report you, you know.”

Stiles took a breath, shooting a glance at Derek. He looked reluctantly amused more than anything, and Stiles supposed that was a better reaction that some.

“And before you go asking to whom, just remember that the sheriff is an elected office, and I have a very important councilwoman in my back pocket.”

With that he forcibly hit the end call button and tossed Derek’s phone back to him, who just shook his head and slipped it back in his pocket.

“What was that all about?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“No need to get so defensive. I honestly thought he was in the wrong.” Stiles’ phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it, knowing it was a text from his dad—who will from then on be called the sheriff, if that was what he wanted to act like.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh...” Stiles climbed down from the bed in an attempt to hide his returning embarrassment. “I wanted to see if I could distract you.”

“Well, consider it a mission accomplished. Do you know how many times he had to repeat himself?” Derek grinned. “He even asked if I stubbed my toe or something.”

Stiles laughed, and then brought himself in close to Derek, bodies touching, his lips just barely brushing Derek’s before curling away and heading for the door.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

Derek’s mouth was hung open, and he seemed frozen in place. Stiles decided to let him thaw out a little—he mentally snickered at his choice of words—and to just get him a glass of water.

Lightning flashed as he descended to the kitchen, bathing the interior of the house in harsh light. He put the mugs from earlier in the sink, intending to wash them later. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he frowned, rolling his shoulders to get rid of the feeling. It was just the storm; it had him on edge. 

He grabbed cups down from the cabinet and filled one with milk and put ice in the other; Stiles had never liked just tap water, and his dad didn’t believe in pitcher filters. Stiles turned around from putting the milk back in the fridge and picked up the glasses from the counter. 

They shattered on the floor, spilling milk and water everywhere. Stiles’ heart leapt up into his throat, catching the scream that wanted to make its way out. 

Lightning flashed again. Matt was outside the kitchen window, staring inside with a malicious grin on his face. It promised… He didn’t know a word for what that look guaranteed him. The next burst of light showed Matt holding his hand up in the sign for _phone_ , and his grin widened. 

Stiles took a step back, and somewhere in the back of his mind registered regret for never wearing shoes in his own home as pieces of glass sliced into his feet. He flinched but never took his eyes from the window. Another step. More shards. Red ran with white. Another flash. He was gone. 

Suddenly somebody was behind him, touching him, and that scream violently ripped its way from his throat. Hands spun him around and he lashed out with fists. Whoever it was grappled with him until he was cocooned, his own arms wrapped around him along with someone else’s. 

Breaths came harshly. He was shaking. He couldn’t stop. The fight drained out of him. He couldn’t breathe. He was turned around again, his back to a chest. Hands pressed against his chest, pushing down then releasing pressure. He could feel the chest behind him rising and falling. It sparked recognition in him. 

His blood felt thick. The world was spinning. His stomach wanted to empty itself of everything he’d eaten in ten lifetimes. His hands scrabbled against the arms holding him fast, else he felt like the earth would swallow him whole. 

Slowly his focus narrowed in on the pressure and release of those hands on his chest. Press. Release. Press. Release. They echoed what he felt against his back. Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. In. Out. The spark flared and Stiles drew breath. 

His heart rate bottomed out and he slumped against the body behind him. He vaguely recognised it as Derek. Pain pricked his consciousness, and he looked down. His feet were bleeding sluggishly, and he could see glass with blood smeared on them. He could imagine what the soles of his feet looked like. 

The world tilted on its axis, and he was being swiftly transported upwards. Derek had picked him up and they were heading back upstairs. Stiles reached up a hand and cupped Derek’s cheek, resting his head against his chest. 

“I swear I’m not always a Disney princess in need of rescuing.” 

That got him a chuckle, and a kiss was pressed into his palm. 

“Usually I’m pretty badass. Like Merida. Or Tia. And yes, I realise I’m casting myself in the role of princess. I’m fine with that.” 

Stiles’ world tipped again and then he was sitting on a covered toilet. 

“I seem to remember both of them getting into a couple spots of trouble,” Derek said, making sure that Stiles was stable, hands hovering around him. 

Then he started rummaging around in drawers and cabinets. 

“What are you doing?” 

Derek’s head popped out from behind the door to the cabinet under the sink. “Looking for a first-aid kit. I assume in a household like this, it has at least three dozen. But I can’t even find bandages.” 

Stiles squinted, thinking about what Derek might need. “Tweezers. Third drawer on your right. Bandages. Cabinet behind you. Antibiotic cream should be there, too. Trash can. Right here.” He nudged it out with his hand. 

He smiled, smug, at the fond look on Derek’s face, before he turned to retrieve the items. 

While Derek was busy, Stiles took out his phone. He had two messages. One from the sheriff, warning him that Derek had better be gone before he got home from his late shift, which gave them a couple more hours, and that they were still going to talk about it all, and that Stiles was getting a ride from him in the morning. The other message almost made him drop his phone. 

_[Message from: Unknown]_  
 _Peekaboo._  
 _[Today, 19.36]_  
It had to be from Matt. And even without the text, it was obvious what his real message was. 

_I see you. I can get to you. Anytime. Anywhere._

Stiles’ hands started to shake again, but he forced a smile when Derek returned and kneeled. He patted his raised knee, and Stiles realised he meant for him to put his foot up there. He hissed when he complied, the movement pulling on the tiny cuts. 

“You seem to have to take care of me a lot.” 

Derek looked up from where he was poised with the tweezers. He smiled, and it nearly broke Stiles’ heart. “I don’t mind.” 

No, he might not, but something...sad and twisted...settled deep within Stiles. 

**********************

 

Stiles walked gingerly through the doors of the school, and he immediately hunched his shoulders. Other students were openly glaring at him, while others were pointedly ignoring his presence as he made his way down the hallway to his locker. It all added up to an oppressive environment bearing down on him. 

Derek had told him about the school assembly at the end of the day yesterday, where the sheriff and a few of his deputies had shown up to talk to them about what had happened. They’d asked for anyone to come forward with any pertinent information, and they asked those who had been in the immediate vicinity of the flagpole to give statements. Derek had said he’d heard the sheriff complaining that he knew he couldn’t exactly question the students as minors directly, that there was at least one person in Beacon Hills who was chomping at the bit for something like that to happen so he could slap a lawsuit in their faces--and that person was Mr Whittemore, solicitor extraordinaire. 

Derek said one kid had piped up and called out that Stiles was obviously doing it for attention. The sheriff had apparently stared at the principal until he finally understood that he wanted the administrator to do something, so the student had received a detention.

All of that might explain the hostility toward him that day. They were irritated that they’d been forced to sit through whatever his dad had said, and they blamed him. But he still felt like there was another undercurrent cutting through whatever they were feeling, like it all wasn’t just based on what had happened yesterday afternoon.

_And it wasn’t like I was the one who called the assembly._

But all of that faded away when Derek popped up at his locker, seemingly from out of nowhere.

“Hey—” Stiles was cut off when Derek planted a kiss on his lips.

Stiles’ expression melted into a dreamy smile.

“Hey to you, too,” Derek said, brushing his thumb along Stiles’ lips. “You all right?”

“ _I’m better now,_ ” Stiles signed.

Then Scott rounded the corner, and Stiles immediately busied himself with the things inside his locker, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t see him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Derek glance behind him to see Scott walking with Allison. Stiles hung his head. Just another explanation he owed the guy.

Derek turned his attention back to Stiles, eyes full of concern and confusion. Stiles took a deep breath and turned to face him.

“The long and short of it is we grew apart. I’m bitter about it, but I try really hard not to blame him. What am I compared to the beautiful new girl? Though it really started before Allison. I joined lacrosse for him, even though I came to love it. He got good; I didn’t. He became part of the popular crowd; I didn’t. The end.”

His words spilled out of him in a rush and his eyes closed, trying to hold back any tears. He was tired of crying, of showing weakness, especially in front of Derek.

Derek’s hand on his cheek caused him to open his eyes. “So when he showed up at the hospital...”

“That was the first time he’d spoken to me in months. And I got angry because I thought that he was trying to blame it all on me, though I don’t really think he was. I’m just… I’m not ready to put it all behind me yet I guess.

“Any chance we can just get out of here?”

Derek’s answering smile was brilliant and told him he was being silly. “I have to grab some stuff, but I’ll see you after class?”

First period on Tuesdays and Thursdays were basically the only class they didn’t have together. Stiles had been able to fit in AP Psych with Morrell as an independent study, and he thought that Derek had a free period.

Then Derek was gone and in his place stood a girl with long, curling blonde hair. Erica. Stiles made to move around her, but she pushed on his shoulder none too gently and his back was slammed into the row of lockers behind him.

If she was trying to get a rise out of him, she’d have to find some new tactics.

“You need to leave him alone.”

Stiles frowned, confused.

“You’re not right for him. You’re a bad influence. He deserves someone better.”

With that, Erica ground Stiles’ shoulder into the dial of the locker behind him and pushed away, hips swaying suggestively as she sauntered off.

_Don’t you think I already know that?_ he asked no one in particular.

Suddenly the whole situation came under a new light. Some of the students must believe what Erica did. They thought he was ruining Derek, that he was bringing him into a life that wasn’t right for him. And Stiles was only half a step from believing them himself.

Stiles sighed and turned down the hall that would lead him to Morrell’s office. He might have closed the door with a little more force than necessary.

“ _Everything all right?_ ” Ms Morrell signed.

Stiles just nodded in answer. “ _Let’s begin._ ”

***************

Stiles sighed at least a dozen times on the way to the restaurant where they were going to meet Derek’s sister and her…whatever he was. And still Derek didn’t turn the Camaro around and let them find a secluded spot, no matter how many times Stiles suggested it with the waggle of his eyebrows.

Apparently his wiles had their own limitations. Derek hadn’t wanted to disappoint his sister, and Stiles could honestly get behind that—it was sweet. He’d also said that he wanted to meet the guy who thought he could date his sister, who Laura thought was good enough to even consider bringing home to the family.

And that had left Stiles wondering why he hadn’t had a similar vetting process. But he hadn’t dwelled too long on that; it bordered on dangerous territory, and he was determined to make the best of the night, no holds barred.

Derek shifted into park but didn’t turn the car off. He reached over and laced his fingers with Stiles’.

“If you really don’t want to do this, I can text Laura and tell her something came up.”

The fact that Derek was even offering that—albeit slightly late in the game—cemented Stiles’ desire to go through with the evening. Stiles put on his best grin.

“No, let’s do this. Plus I’ve heard this place has the best pie.”

Derek laughed and unbuckled Stiles and himself before extricating himself. Stiles paused, betting—yep, Derek ran around the car and popped Stiles’ door open.

“I feel like I should be in Georgia in a sundress and a giant straw hat or something, with you always acting like such a southern gentleman.”

“I don’t always have to be so proper,” he said as he crowded Stiles against the Camaro, bodies pressing together. He licked into Stiles’ mouth, stealing his breath and all thoughts. “I just choose to.” Derek pulled back and straightened Stiles’ shirt, acting like all of that hadn’t affected him in the slightest.

They entered the establishment and Derek told the hostess they were waiting for a couple people. She said they were already there and for them to follow her. They wove their way through tables and booths and then she was laying their menus on a table. Stiles’ eyes took in the sight before him before his mind registered what was happening.

Laura was sitting there, an arm draped across her shoulders, a glass with soda in front of her. She was reading the menu and laughing at whatever her date was saying to her, whispering it in her ear.

Her date straightened to look at his own menu and Stiles froze in place, a few feet from the table. It was Matt. The hostess brushed past him. Derek paused and looked behind him.

“Give me your keys,” Stiles blurted.

Derek frowned, but immediately reached to comply. “Stiles, what—”

“I left my wallet in your car,” he lied.

Derek grinned. “I planned on paying.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, forgetting for the moment the panic he was feeling. “You don’t always have to pay. But I think I left it right on my seat, and I don’t want anybody breaking into your car for it.”

“This is Beacon Hills. People don’t break into cars,” Derek said, still grinning, but handed over the keys.

Stiles turned without replying. _Yeah, the same Beacon Hills that harbours a psychopathic sadist with a penchant for public humiliation._

When Stiles burst through the doors and stumbled outside, he took giant gulps of air. He hadn’t seen Matt at all since Monday night, and it was Wednesday, the night that Laura had picked for their double date.

And it was with Laura and _Matt_. Laura was dating Matt. His tormenter. He couldn’t help but think that showing up like that was part of his plan—just another notch in Matt’s sixty days of torture.

He immediately felt bad for thinking that Laura was merely a pawn. Maybe he was wrong. Laura was a great girl, an amazing catch, if he were into that sort of thing. Yeah, he could be wrong.

Then he remembered Matt’s message. _Peekaboo._

Unfortunately for Laura, she had been reduced to just a game piece. Stiles’ hands shook, trembling violently. He dropped the keys onto the ground. He bent to pick them up and a knee connected with his abdomen, driving the air from his chest.x

He crashed to the ground and came to rest against the door of the Camaro.

He looked up. Matt.

“You weren’t thinking of leaving us, were you? And here I was, thinking it’d be such fun to pretend to play the good boyfriend. Well, you can’t leave before I have some fun.”

Eventually Matt went back inside, saying something about potty breaks being over. Stiles clutched his ribs, the jabs to them stinging and aching all at once. His wrist was smarting, too. Matt had dug his fingers right into where the deepest cuts were. 

Stiles had been mortified when Derek had finally told him what they were from in the car ride home from the hospital. When he had gone to take a shower, he saw that whoever had changed him into the hospital gown had washed most of it away, but he could still trace the outline of the letters that had marred his chest. His chest marked with his own blood, labelling him something dirty. Something rotten. And unwanted. 

When he could stand without trembling and walk without wanting to gasp in pain, he went back inside. There was no way he could explain his leaving to Derek--and he didn’t want to make Derek feel bad or angry or whatever--and he definitely wasn’t letting Matt win. He wasn’t going to let Matt make him leave. He wasn’t going to surrender. 

When he saw Laura sitting there with Matt, his resolve strengthened. It was better that this was happening to him than have it be them. He could only imagine that if Stiles had left, Matt would turn his cold wrath on Laura instead. 

“Oh, hey, Stiles!” Laura greeted when he slid into the booth next to Derek. 

Stiles smiled at her sheepishly. “Sorry. My wallet somehow got wedged between the seat and the console, and it was one helluva fight getting it out of there. The Camaro almost won out, but I persevered. And my voice rings triumphant.” 

Laura gave him a look that said she was still trying to figure him out, but she still smiled politely at his story.

Derek pressed his thigh against Stiles’, and he took great comfort from the simple touch. 

“So,” he said, picking up his menu, “has everybody ordered?” 

“Derek here wouldn’t let us. Said it was rude,” Matt said with a nod in Derek’s direction. 

Derek kept his face straight, like he was trying to deny any such thing had happened, but Stiles just wanted to make sure that Matt never looked at Derek ever again. 

“Manners aside, I’m freakin’ starving. Let’s get this party started!” 

Then it was Derek’s turn to give him a look. Maybe he was trying too hard. He told himself to tone it down before they started asking questions that he couldn’t really answer. The back of his mind was working on coming up with believable answers to any potentially awkward queries as he perused the menu in front of him. 

He leaned over Derek’s menu, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “It all looks so good, though. I’m kinda weary of restaurants who put pictures of food in their menu. Who doesn’t know what a stack of pancakes looks like? What are you getting?” 

Derek pointed at some sort of salad concoction with grilled chicken. Stiles groaned. 

“You would get the one thing without even a modicum of something unhealthy in it.” 

Laura exploded into laughter, Stiles saw out of the corner of his eye. Startled, he shot back up straight. 

“I’ve been telling him that for years; nice to know that he doesn’t get away with it from other people, too.” 

Stiles smiled, and started to laugh with her, but cut off when he noticed the look Matt was directing at him. 

“So have you met Matt before?” Laura asked, taking a sip from her soda. 

“I’ve--uh--seen him around, but we’ve never really been introduced.” Stiles coughed into his hand and went back to reading his menu. 

Derek nudged him with his shoulder. "You all right?"

"What? No, yeah, I'm fine. Sorry. Just kinda had an off day."

"Off day? More like an off week." Matt decided to chime in. "I heard about your little incident. I wonder why you were...picked." 

"I'm sure it was just an unfortunate coincidence. Wrong place, wrong time, you know?"

Derek's hand squeezed his knee. "You were attacked at and stolen from your own home. I don’t think the term coincidence applies.” 

“No, I bet the guy was just waiting for someone to come outside or be alone. I was just…” His hand flapped around, looking for the right word. 

“Convenient?” Matt supplied. 

Stiles’ shoulders slumped. “Yeah. That.” Derek looked like he wanted to say more. “Can we just move on? I don’t want to be a downer on this conversation. It happened. I’m fine.” 

The rest of the dinner went similarly to that. Matt would make underhanded jibes at Stiles that sounded like normal conversation, and Stiles would be forced to reply just as cryptically to keep throwing them off. 

He let the rest of the conversation, when it wasn’t with Matt at the helm of the USS Tormenter, wash over him, putting in his two cents when it was expected, but mainly poking at his food. He forgot about the pie. 

Finally it was time to say good night, and they parted ways, but not before Laura grabbed Stiles’ phone and put her number in it--Stiles had smiled at her offer to “text whenever.” Stiles couldn’t help but breathe a little sigh of relief once it was clear that Laura and Matt were going to spend the rest of the night alone. Matt had no cause to harm her, and Laura could handle herself, Stiles figured. 

Derek opened his door and bowed him inside, making a parody of their earlier conversation. Stiles almost wished they could reenact the _other_ bit of it, but the night was still young. 

The ride to Stiles’ house--the sheriff was working late again--was quiet. But it was a companionable silence, not uncomfortable at all. And Stiles was glad for once to be alone in his thoughts, not having to put up a mask. Derek had threaded his fingers through Stiles’ early on, and Stiles was absently playing with his fingertips while watching Beacon Hills pass by through the window. 

He wondered if Derek would ever let him drive the Camaro again. That had been fun. Stiles looked over at Derek when he felt a little squeeze. 

“Sorry, what was that?” Derek asked. 

Stiles blushed. “Did I really say that out loud? I just asked if you’d ever let me drive again. Or, hell, if Dad will ever give me the keys to Roscoe. Deaf people drive. I can drive.” 

Stiles saw Derek laugh out of the corner of his eye and he hunched his shoulders defensively. 

They finally reached his house, and Stiles got out of the car before Derek could pass round it to open it for him; it was his little way of getting back at him for his laughter. 

“Do you want something to drink?” Derek asked after they had taken off their jackets and Stiles had locked the door behind him, but not before waving jauntily at the officer in the patrol car stationed outside. “For some reason, I’m still parched.” 

Stiles watched as Derek easily pulled down two glasses and went to the fridge to grab whatever it was he wanted. 

“Since when do you do domestic?” 

Derek paused in the act of pouring milk into the glasses and blushed. He looked at the carton of milk in his hand and at the two cups on the counter. “Oh. I--uh--sorry?” 

He turned back to finish topping off the glasses, and Stiles went up behind him meaning to show his gratitude and that he didn’t mind it at all, but apparently the universe had other ideas. 

Derek turned with a glass in hand, intending to hand it to Stiles before putting away the carton, which caused his arm to crash into Stiles, sloshing milk all down his front. Of course, not a drop got on Derek or his clothes, because that was his life. 

Derek tried wiping at it with the towel from the stove, but Stiles pushed his hands away, telling him it was fine. The look on Derek’s face was pretty comical, but Stiles didn’t really feel like laughing right then. 

“I’m just gonna throw this in the wash and go change.” 

“I--I’ll clean this up,” Derek said, his expression telling Stiles that he wished he could do more. 

Stiles smiled his thanks and told him to bring up that last brownie when he was done. He exited the kitchen and detoured to the laundry room, tossing his jeans and shirt in the washing machine, and hightailed it to his room. 

He quickly shoved his legs into a different pair of jeans and grabbed a comfortable shirt from his closet. He was about to put it on when a dark blotch on his abdomen made him pause. It’s where Matt’s knee had hit him. He lifted his arm and saw more splotches of colour marking his side where Matt had used his fists. He touched them gingerly, and his cold fingertips and the pain from the bruises made him hiss out a breath. 

Motion caused Stiles to look up. Derek was standing there in his doorway, a frown set so deeply in his face that he almost looked frightening. His expression was bordering on anger, and it made Stiles jump into action. 

He whipped on the shirt, shoving his head and arms through. “Hey, Derek!” The vowel in the greeting was drawn out, the same way he always responded whenever somebody caught him doing something he shouldn’t. 

“What were those?” 

“What--I--what--where?” Stiles had never been very adept at lying when caught out; he needed time to prepare a story. 

Derek placed the plate with the brownie on it on Stiles’ desk and marched over to where Stiles was standing. He lifted Stiles’ shirt and his hand hovered above the large bruise. 

“What is this from?” 

Stiles could tell Derek was grinding out the words, his teeth clenched. Stiles turned away from Derek and grabbed the brownie, popping a piece in his mouth. 

“Oh, you know me. I fell. On the stairs.” 

He faced Derek again, and it seemed like his anger was melting away. “They seem new.” 

“Yeah. It was this morning. I tried walking up the stairs and putting my pants on at the same time--fresh outta the dryer, you know? Needless to say, it was a plan that didn’t work out.” 

Stiles broke off another piece to cover his reaction to lying to Derek. 

Derek took a deep breath and seemed to be searching for something as he looked at Stiles. Stiles schooled his expression into something neutral and earnest, repeating the mantra _Please believe me_ in his head. It wasn’t untrue; he wanted Derek to believe him. But it was his lie he wanted believed, not the truth. And how twisted was that? 

“Come on, Derek. Let’s not talk about how flail-tastic I am. You did say you’d make it up to me, if I remember.” 

Derek blinked and a smile slowly took over his face. “I seem to remember that it was you telling me that I had to make it up to you.” 

Stiles grinned; he would work with that. 

“Here, let me show you how to get started.” 

He walked towards Derek and put his hands on his shoulders, gently pushing. Derek got the idea and walked back until his legs hit the bed and he collapsed onto it. Stiles kept pushing until Derek was lying flat on the bed, then Stiles repeated his actions from Monday and straddled his waist. 

Derek seemed to enjoy whatever it was Stiles was doing, if the smile on his face was anything to go by, and Stiles leant down to kiss him, his tongue pushing into Derek’s mouth, chasing that taste. Just when Derek started to respond more actively, his hands sliding up Stiles’ thighs and gripping his waist, Stiles pulled back. 

He tugged at the hem of Derek’s shirt, and Derek seemed to get the idea and was willing to go along with anything; he leant forward and Stiles pulled his shirt off. Stiles crooked his fingers and grazed Derek’s abdomen and chest with his nails, grinning when Derek threw his head back at the sensation. Derek’s hips bucked when Stiles’ mouth found his nipple, teeth and lips and tongue brushing against it. Stiles worked his mouth up Derek’s neck and reached with one hand into the drawer in his nightstand. 

Stiles licked back into Derek’s mouth, his hand cupping Derek’s throat; he felt Derek groan when he rolled his hips against Derek’s. He pulled back again and shifted so he could reach the button and zipper to Derek’s jeans. His lust-filled eyes met Stiles’, red, kiss-plumped lips parted so prettily. 

“What--?” 

Immediately Stiles paused. “Do you want me to stop?” He held up the bottle he’d fished out from his drawer, hoping that he didn’t have to explain what exactly what he wanted to do. 

Derek swallowed and told him it was okay to continue. Stiles finished unzipping his jeans and slid off to the side of Derek and pulled them down. He palmed him through his boxer-briefs. He was already hard, straining against the cotton, leaking a dark patch into the fabric. 

Stiles grinned. He’d done that to Derek. He felt an answering pulse of excitement in his own pants. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the skin right above the band of Derek’s underwear and looked to see Derek’s reaction. He was still holding him through the material. Derek’s head was thrown back, but he looked down at Stiles, a flush covering his chest, neck and cheeks. Stiles wanted to lick wherever the flush touched. 

Stiles grinned when Derek noticed he was looking, when the flush deepened, but Derek didn’t look away. Stiles kept his gaze trained on Derek’s face as he pushed the cotton down, but he looked back at what he was doing when he first touched Derek without anything between them. 

That was the first time he’d ever touched another guy’s dick. He was sure his lack of experience was obvious as he ghosted his fingers down and up, feeling the silky texture. He wrapped his hand around it and gave a few experimental tugs, though he knew it wouldn’t feel that good. 

He popped the cap and poured some onto his hand then wrapped it around Derek again. He looked back up at Derek, whose breath was harsh--he was almost panting. Stiles hummed in response and slid his hand up and down the length of Derek’s cock, twisting every so often. 

He felt torn between wanting to watch Derek and his rather enjoyable facial expressions as he jacked him off and watching as his hand moved and worked his boyfriend’s dick for the first time. He varied speeds every so often, trying to figure out what made Derek tick, what he liked best. 

His back arched off the bed when his thumb grazed the underside of the head, and Stiles felt him keen with his hand placed still on Derek’s neck as he twisted his wrist when he reached the top. Derek’s breath was getting faster, and the muscles in his abdomen kept clenching and relaxing. 

Stiles looked up at Derek, but he was too far gone to say anything. His hips lifted from the bed as Stiles sped up and twisted just once more and then he was coming, covering his abs and chest. Stiles slowed down, but kept moving, letting Derek come down softly. His legs seemed to give out and he collapsed back onto the bed and Stiles finally released him before he could get overly sensitive. 

Stiles crawled up the bed and captured Derek’s mouth in a heated kiss. Derek responded eagerly, his fingers carding through Stiles’ hair, licking along his teeth, chasing his tongue. 

When Stiles finally pulled back, Derek said, “That was…” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

That was all the praise Stiles needed. He laid his head on Derek’s shoulder, eyes fixed on the faint mark he’d left on Monday. It was barely there now as Stiles pressed into it, but Derek shifted as though he could still feel it. Stiles grinned. Leaving marks was fun. 

Derek reached over to his nightstand and grabbed a tissue and cleaned himself off before pulling up his underwear and pants. Then he surprised Stiles by basically tossing him onto his back and reaching for his fly. 

“Oh, you don’t--” 

Derek silenced him with a kiss. “I know. But I want to. If that’s okay?” Derek’s eyes searched his, and Stiles couldn’t do anything but nod his consent. 

Stiles was soon bereft of his jeans and boxers, and he’d never felt so exposed before. He tried to avoid looking at Derek, tried to avoid seeing what his reaction might be, but if anything Derek’s expression voiced hunger or just all-out desire. Stiles was a little surprised. 

But all rational thought Visas were revoked when Derek wrapped a lubed hand around Stiles’ dick and pumped it, testing, just like he had done. He knew he wouldn’t last, not amped up like he was. 

He said as much and Derek just grinned at him. Derek tried out all the same tricks Stiles had, and he couldn’t even begin to describe the sensations flooding his veins. Someone else was touching him, wanting to bring him off. He’d never experienced anything like that in his life and--oh! 

_My god._

Derek’s hand swept up and down, twisted, sped up and then he was gone. Stiles’ hips jerked into Derek’s fist as he came, Derek still pumping as he floated down from his high. His toes uncurled and he released Derek’s hair that he hadn’t realised he’d been grasping--he hoped he hadn’t pulled too hard. But then he swept his fingers through Derek’s hair again, grabbing a light handful and tugged until Derek’s lips crashed onto his. 

Sometime later, Stiles noticed that Derek had the peace of mind to get another tissue and clean him off, too, though how his mind could work when they were kissing like that, he’d never know. Stiles hummed contentedly as they lay there, Derek’s head on his chest and his fingers playing in Derek’s hair. 

But then the full weight of what he’d done fell onto Stiles’ shoulders and it was hard to breathe for a moment as he fought down panic. He’d basically used sex to distract Derek from the truth, or at least from Derek asking questions trying to get at the truth. 

And all those things feelings from earlier this week came flooding back. He felt them like the brands they were, searing into his skin. 

_Dirty. Rotten. Unwanted._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, join me on [tumblr](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com). I've gotten into this habit of posting spoilers and snippets before I post the chapter, if that's something you might be interested in. =] 
> 
> And remember, comments make my life!


	12. Hearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which a new face comes to play and a decision is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [lunawho47](http://www.lunawho47.tumblr.com) for getting back to me so quickly, and [messajo](http://www.messajo.tumblr.com) for sticking with me. 
> 
> A final shout-out to Alison (blog-less, unfortunately) for helping choose a last name. 
> 
> Skip to the bottom for a couple of warnings, and also note the rating change. 
> 
> As always, enjoy reading!

Derek grabbed his phone from the nightstand, almost forgetting it in his haste to get out of the house on his way to school. Stiles was getting a ride with his dad, and he wasn’t bothered by that--not _really_ ; just in the sense that he enjoyed driving him places, being in the same space with him--though he was a little worried about whatever conversation the two of them might have, and Stiles’ reaction to anything that might come to light. 

His father _had_ said that they would discuss Stiles’ relationship with him sometime later, and maybe the sheriff thought that the best time--or easiest, since both of them had an escape route at the end of it all--would be a car ride. Derek hoped that the conversation wouldn’t go south, since he had already spoken with the man, and that it would be more of a summit to make sure that they were both on the same page--or something. 

He checked the display of his mobile as he started the Camaro; it showed one message from Stiles in the small hours of the morning after he had already fallen asleep. Last night had...worn him out, to say the least. 

The text made him laugh aloud. Apparently Stiles had been bored and unable to fall asleep and had subsequently chosen to ask Derek about the weather, of all things. Derek shook his head, deciding that a response could obviously wait until he saw Stiles, and he was about to put the car in gear when he saw something that caught his eye near the treeline close to his house. 

He jumped out and grabbed it, putting it carefully in the seat next to him before he finally started driving to the high school. It felt like there was a hum or buzz under his skin in anticipation of seeing Stiles soon, and he most likely wouldn’t have been ashamed to admit it to anybody who asked. 

Derek made his way straight for Stiles’ locker, hoping that he’d already be there. Apparently it was his lucky day: Stiles was fiddling with the dial on his locker. Derek quickly slipped up beside him and bent his neck to plant a kiss on Stiles’ cheek. 

He absently noticed, not for the first time, that he didn’t have much in the way of height on Stiles. An inch at most, he’d say. And by the looks of Stiles’ limbs, the way he moved, he probably hadn’t stopped growing. Warmth diffused through Derek at the thought of Stiles having to bend his neck to kiss Derek, of Derek having to stand on his toes to press his lips against Stiles’. He hummed before coming back to himself and noticing the slightly shocked look on Stiles’ face. 

Derek handed him his spontaneous gift: a blue wildflower, one of the first of the new spring. Stiles took it, but instead of smiling graciously or any other of the multitude of ways Derek had thought Stiles might react, he frowned down at it. 

“So,” Stiles said in a whisper, apparently unable to refrain from leaning down to sniff the flower he held, “you think you can waltz in here after talking with my dad and deciding together that you’re going to date me.” 

Derek wanted the earth to swallow him whole as his ears tinged pink. So they _had_ talked about that whole thing. Had the sheriff not mentioned that he’d been told what a bad idea it had been? If he had, it obviously didn’t matter to Stiles. 

Derek stood there, mouth working to find a response, mind already panicking about how much that could screw things up for them. He didn’t know what to say. Was Stiles looking for a certain apology or action? Clearly it wasn’t the gift of a flower, not that Derek had even had that as an idea when he saw the flower. So he said as much. 

“I just thought it was pretty and wanted to give it to you,” Derek said weakly. 

Stiles just stared at him for a few moments, as though deciding what to say next. “To quote one of my favourites, ‘I am not a prize to be won.’”

Then, as though in deliberate counterpoint to his words, he carefully tucked the flower into his thickest textbook and placed it into his locker, putting a couple other books on top of that one. He was pressing the flower! Then he leaned up and gently grazed his lips on Derek’s before turning on his heel and walking down the hall, leaving Derek reeling there. 

What he hoped the message Stiles just gave him was that he wasn’t truly angry with Derek--or, more likely, he might be frustrated then but he knew he wouldn’t stay that way; to maybe give him some time. 

Derek would test out the waters at lunch, see where he stood. He hoped that his first slip up in their relationship would be his only, and he was thankful that it was relatively minor--or at least, he hoped it was relatively minor in Stiles’ eyes. 

Derek noticed that Stiles was shooting furtive glances to a group of girls standing over by the drinking fountain, and that they were basically glaring back at him and talking behind their hands. 

He took a couple steps toward the glowering gaggle, but then the bell rang and he realised that he was on the other side of the school from his first class. 

_Looks like it's going to be one of those days..._

***************

After lunch, Derek’s backpack was grabbed and he was forcibly dragged into one of the boy’s bathroom. Scott McCall of all people stood before him with a crooked grin on his face, as if saying it was all okay--not to worry. 

Derek supposed that with McCall--of all people--it was probably safe to not worry. But that didn’t mean Derek felt it was a good idea to be here. He didn’t want to get in the middle of whatever it was that was going on between the two of them--he still didn’t have a complete picture. 

“Dude, look,” Scott began, but Derek interrupted him. 

“Don’t call me dude. I’m not your bro, let’s get that clear. I’m your team captain, and we’ve never been friends. I’m not trying to be rude; I’m just being honest.” 

Derek only let Stiles continually call him that because it was nearly unbearably adorable; usually when Stiles used it, it was with affection and it warmed some part of him. 

“Okay, Derek, sorry. I get it. I just wanted to talk to you,” Scott said, holding up his hands. 

“Then get on with it or we’re going to be late for next period.” 

Scott looked at him askance, as though Derek cared at that point for his disapproval. 

“I need you to get me another chance with Stiles, another time to talk to him. But since he’s obviously made you choose sides, it looks like that won’t happen.” 

Scott started to move past him, but Derek’s hand landed flat on his chest and pushed him back with a small shove. 

“I have not chosen sides; Stiles has not made me choose a side. You know why?” Derek paused for a moment, taking a breath to cool the heated anger that was building inside him. “Because he’s not that type of person. He would never ask me to choose between him and you, even were we friends. Stiles would make that decision for me, for us, if it came down to it, and make sure it was you. Because you were his best friend. 

“If it came down to it, and a decision were necessary, I would choose him, most definitely. Not because I agree with him more, not because I dislike you, but because you’re not showing me anything to change my mind. If you want another opportunity to talk to him, take it. You caught him off guard that day, and he obviously wasn’t having a good one. But don’t manhandle him into a bathroom. Now if you’ll excuse me. Dude.” 

Derek left Scott there with his jaw clenching and unclenching, lost in thought. 

***************

Stiles sighed again, and Derek glanced over at him. The other boy had a highlighter cap in his mouth and the marker poised over his textbook, but as far as Derek had noticed, he hadn't marked a single word in the last quarter hour. 

He saw Derek looking and he grinned. 

"I feel like all we do is study anymore. Since you asked my dad's permission to take me out, why don't you actually take me out?" He placed the back of his hand on his forehead. "I have a sudden need for a southern gentleman to dote on me like the belle I am." 

Derek just laughed and rolled his eyes. They hadn't talked about it at lunch, at least not overtly. Stiles had sat down at the table Derek had already been occupying with a huff, disgruntled at the world. He had then accepted Derek's pudding cup as some sort of apology--Derek was of a mind to think that Stiles had wanted to make some sort of production of his acquiescence, but he'd reined it in for some reason, looking around him before just digging in; his love for pudding almost rivalled that for curly fries. 

And since they were apparently in the joking stage in referencing the incident... He'd say they were pretty much over it. Derek could have crumpled in relief, honestly. 

"Technically we were just out two nights ago," Derek said, reaching over to grab Stiles' notes on the French Revolution. So many nobles, so few guillotines. 

He vaguely wondered if Stiles would like that joke as his boyfriend muttered something under his breath that sounded like, "Don't remind me." 

Louder, Stiles said, "Yeah, two whole nights ago. It's Friday night. Your family is obviously doing something, since they're not here. And we're stuck learning about Marie Antoinette and acid-base balance." 

Derek blushed. "It's family dinner and a movie night. Uh, once a month thing, since it takes four weeks for us all to agree on a place to eat and what to watch." He scratched at his neck before admitting, "They all laughed when I said I'd rather stay in with you."

He refused to tell Stiles that both Laura and Cora had made kissing noises, and though they didn't understand, Noah and Elijah had laughed all the more raucously. Derek was sure the pink on his cheeks told Stiles enough. 

Stiles raised an eyebrow in what Derek hoped was mock outrage. "You mean to tell me that I'm missing out on a primo opportunity to get blackmail material?" 

And just that fast, Derek decided Stiles was to be kept away from the rest of his family. There were several choice stories about makeup, dresses and his mother's high heels that his sister could spill, along with a plethora of baby photos that nobody should ever have the displeasure of perusing that Talia would be more than happy to share. 

"But that brings me to my point. It's a Friday night. We're alone. We're teenagers. Shouldn't we be doing something a little less PG-rated?" 

Stiles' eyes trailed down Derek's body, sprawled as he was on the living room floor, and he felt them like fire burning along his veins. Those eyes were ochre as they met his, searing into his own. Derek forgot all about the papers and books scattered around them as the electricity he thought only existed in the fictional worlds crackled through the air between them. 

The next thing he knew, he was manhandling Stiles onto his lap, who seemed just as eager to get there, lips crashing together in a tangle of tongue and teeth that was more than perfect. He tugged on Stiles’ bottom lip, grazing it with his teeth and then tongue, with Stiles gasping against his lips. He moved his mouth along Stiles’ jaw in a fervour that could only be described as _hunger_.

Stiles’ threw back his head, exposing more of that pale neck, and if Derek hadn’t already been hard, that along with Stiles moving his hips, one hand gripping his shoulder tight and the other raking his nails up his ribs and him crying out an _Oh, fuck!_ got him there.

Derek made a move to rise from the floor of the living room and bring Stiles with him, wanting to at least get somewhere a little more comfortable, if not--but Stiles tightened his grip, as though he didn’t want to be moved. But Derek persisted, distracting him by chasing that taste that was pure Stiles, and eventually they were both on their feet. Derek wasn’t even sure Stiles was aware of the change as he gently tugged on Stiles’ arms to get him walking, with the way Stiles’ lips were attacking his with abandon. 

The stairs were more of a pain than he’d like to admit, but finally, they were in his room and Derek was sprawling out on his bed and dragging Stiles with him. He seemed to come to himself as he pulled back and looked around him. 

Stiles hummed at what he saw, apparently pleased. “Always with the bright ideas; I knew I let you ask my dad for my hand for a reason.” Stiles grinned and dipped his head to drag his lips along Derek’s neck, pulling the hem of his shirt up. 

Derek grinned back at him, deciding to go for broke. He pushed gently at Stiles’ shoulders, waiting until Stiles’ eyes were on him and focused before he said, using sign language, “ _I want you to fuck me._ ”

Stiles froze in the act of removing Derek’s shirt, completely still, completely unlike him. Did he accidentally break Stiles? 

“ _If you want…_ ” he signed, not knowing if Stiles was paying any attention. 

Stiles blinked a few times and cleared his throat. "I--you--I never thought--are you--?" 

Stiles' hands released their grip on his shirt and started to gesture wildly during his search for whatever he was trying to articulate. Derek reached out and grabbed them in his own, placing them on his chest and keeping them there with one hand and pulled Stiles down for a deep kiss with the other. 

"I'm sure," Derek said when they had both caught their breath again.

Stiles' hands scrabbled for Derek's shirt, more confident in their actions, quickly divesting him of the garment. He leaned down and gently bit his collarbone--one of his favourite things to do, though Derek wasn't complaining, if the way he arched his back off the bed was any indication. 

Stiles' hand and fingers mapped out the planes of Derek's body, pausing at one of his nipples, teasing it into a peak. Wherever his hand went, his mouth quickly followed. He flicked it with his tongue before rolling it between his teeth. His other hand rested on Derek's neck, the fingers gently digging in every so often, alternating between massaging and using his nails to graze the skin. The difference in sensation caused Derek's skin to pebble, and he shivered with the pulses that they were sending down his spine. 

Derek moaned as Stiles' fingers and lips found his abdomen, tracing the divets and valleys of his muscles with his fingertips and tongue. Breath left him in a rush when Stiles' teeth sank into the skin of his hip right above the line of his jeans. Biting was a thing for him--news to him, but he was more than okay with it. 

Derek risked a look and immediately wished he hadn't, hissing in a breath; the visual was almost too much. Stiles was about to unbutton his jeans with his teeth. He carded the fingers of one hand through Stiles' hair and left it there, gently gripping a fistful; he used his other arm to cover his eyes, removing any temptation to look again. 

When he realised nothing had happened for a few moments and heard a faint grunt of frustration, he chanced another glance and saw that Stiles was glowering up at him, face tinged red, jaw clenched, eyes daring Derek to say something. He hadn't been able to open Derek's fly; Derek had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Not that he would laugh at Stiles, but the way he was glaring at Derek was just too adorable for him not to want to smile. 

Stiles seemed to accept Derek's silence and reluctantly removed his hand from his neck and made quick work of Derek's pants. Derek threw his head back, canting his hips as Stiles cupped him through his boxer-briefs and used that movement to get his jeans the rest of the way off him. 

Stiles leaned down just as Derek looked back at what he was doing, and his head hit the pillow as Stiles breathed hotly right where Derek was sure there was a dark wet stain. 

He stripped Derek of his underwear, nails grazing his thighs. Derek gasped at the feeling and the cool air as his dick was released. He flushed when it hit his abdomen; he was completely bared to Stiles then. It felt differently than it had a few nights ago, more intimate. 

Nothing happened for a few moments and Derek realised that Stiles was just kneeling there, knees on either side of Derek, staring at him. Derek's flush deepened. He heard Stiles hum--appreciatively? Derek wasn't sure he could blush any harder. 

When Stiles looked up at him, a dopey grin on his face, he said, "I think this is the part where I remove your clothes." 

Stiles made another noise, playful and deeper. "Hmm, not just yet I don't think." 

Derek's eyes widened as he saw that Stiles was moving a little further down on the bed, scooting backwards on his knees, to be in the perfect position to...

"Oh, my god," Derek groaned, head flopping down, unable to look as Stiles pressed a tentative kiss to the head of his cock. 

He was certain he was making other noises as Stiles licked a stripe up the underside, but the blood rushing through his veins drowned out all sound. All he could focus on were the sensations as Stiles wrapped his lips around his dick and enveloped it in the warm, wet heat of his mouth. 

Stiles used his hand to curl around the base, twisting and sliding up to meet his lips as he took more of Derek's length into his mouth. Derek gasped, fisting a handful of Stiles' hair as the other boy sucked hard at the head of his dick, tongue laving at the underside of the glans.

Stiles moved up and down, hand twisting. Derek could feel it building at the base of his spine, and he moaned, writhing on the bed. Derek didn't think it could get any better just as Stiles backed off his dick with an audible pop, seeming to notice Derek's movements and recognising them. He waggled his eyebrows at Derek and shook his head slightly, gripping Derek at the base slightly harder than was comfortable. 

Derek's growing orgasm abated, though exhilaration rushed through his arteries at the thought that Stiles could already read him and _control_ him like that. 

"Lube? Condom?" Stiles asked just before he sucked one of Derek's balls into his mouth. 

"Hnnngh," was Derek's response, not that Stiles was paying any attention. Derek's free hand scrabbled weakly along the side of the bed, trying to find the spot where he’d hidden the stuff. Finally his fingers caught on and he pulled out an entire string of condoms and a bottle of lube. 

And then Stiles laughed. Loudly. And apparently Derek’s flush _could_ go deeper. 

“Kudos on the excellent hiding spot, man, but talk about high expectations,” Stiles managed to get out in between bouts of laughter, clutching at his sides. 

Derek grumbled under his breath before directing at Stiles, “I shoved them in there when I had a moment, okay? I have snoops for sisters.” 

Stiles reached for the lube, and Derek’s breath hitched in anticipation, and he squirmed a little. Stiles noticed, and he crawled back up Derek’s body, planting kisses on his way, paying special attention to his neck. And since when had Stiles become this amazingly hot sensuous being that was making Derek slowly burn to ash? 

Stiles grazed his teeth over the shell of Derek’s ear after kissing him so deeply that his toes curled and whispered, “Wanna help me with my clothes now?” 

Derek kissed him again, lifting them until they were both upright on the bed, and he moved away only to lift Stiles’ shirt above his head, diving back in, his tongue exploring Stiles’ mouth as his hands reciprocated Stiles’ earlier actions, canvassing his body like it was a work of art. 

He deftly flipped them over so that he was kneeling above Stiles’ body and quickly unbuttoned his jeans, lips still pressed to his. He pushed them down past his thighs and peeled them from his ankles, shucking off the socks as he was at it. 

Stiles was left in only his boxers, biting his lip almost self-consciously, hands twitching on the comforter like he wanted to cover himself up. That wouldn’t do, not at all. 

“You’re--” Derek cut himself off when Stiles blushed furiously and turned his head, as though he didn’t want to see what Derek thought of him. 

So he tried the next best thing: showing him, instead. His hands splayed out on his boyfriend’s body, trying to touch every inch of skin they could reach. Stiles canted his hips, grinding their erections together, and Derek groaned at the sensation. 

Stiles used the surprise to switch their positions. He jumped off the bed and shimmied out of his boxers, then laid his body back on Derek’s until they were basically toe-to-toe. Derek hummed, pleased at feeling Stiles’ warm body covering his, overcoming his shock at the sudden change. 

The other boy uncapped the lube, and he warmed it in his hand for a moment before taking both of their dicks in a loose fist and rocking his hips, and--

“Oh, my _god_ ,” Derek moaned, drawing out the vowel. 

The panting in Derek’s ear told him Stiles was just as affected, though he didn’t make much more noise than that. “Maybe some other time,” Stiles breathed into his ear. 

It took him a moment to realise that Stiles was talking about Derek taking his time exploring Stiles’ body. He’d have to make certain that “maybe” would evolve into something a lot more definite. Stiles was beautiful, and Derek couldn’t wait to memorise the pattern of moles dotting the entirety of him.

What Stiles said next, like a caress fanning across his lips, Stiles’ moving his as he spoke, made Derek shudder in suspense. 

“I’ll make it good for you, I promise.” 

Stiles rocked his hips one last time before letting go, kneeling between Derek’s legs, which he spread easily for him. He surprised Derek by taking his length back in his mouth, as deep as he could, deeper than he ever had before, backing off slowly and sucking hard, lapping at the head and the beads of pre-come that were leaking out. If that didn’t make Derek burn up, he wasn’t sure how much more he could take. 

Stiles spread Derek’s ass, circling his hole with a lubed finger, just letting Derek get used to the idea of where he was going next. He looked up at Derek through his lashes, as though asking permission--which, Derek was actually grateful. He wasn’t having second thoughts, but his heart fluttered at the thought that Stiles was making this more about Derek than anything else. 

At Derek’s slight nod, Stiles swallowed Derek as far as he could and pushed past the ring of muscles. Derek had never done this before, not to himself, not even when he decided that he _really_ wanted to have sex with Stiles. 

So the sensation of having Stiles’ finger _inside him_ was… Well, it was weird. It didn’t feel good but it didn’t feel bad, either. Then Stiles twisted his finger, stretching the rim, and started pulling out and pushing back inside. And that...actually felt good. The push and pull was great. 

_More._ He wanted more. He groaned and spread his legs further as Stiles alternated between bobbing up and down on his dick and fucking him with his finger, the warm, wet slide of his lips balancing the stretch of his digit. Derek grabbed Stiles’ hair and pulled, maybe a little more roughly than was necessary, but Stiles moaned around Derek’s cock before popping off it and looking up at Derek, pupils blown wide. 

“More,” he mouthed at Stiles. 

Stiles gave him a smirk with a glint in his eyes that heated Derek’s blood. He slowly pulled his finger out, twisting as he went, and then slowly added a second. The burn it added to the pull and stretch made Derek writhe on the bed. 

Then Stiles’ fingers were fully inside him, to the knuckle, and he crooked them--

Thought, time, reality-- _everything_ \--flew out of his head. His nerves were lit on fire, pleasure sparking up into his brain. He came back to steady consciousness to find Stiles gripping the base of his dick again with a wide grin on his face. He went back to fucking in and out of him with his two fingers, twisting them every so often. Eventually a third was added, and the discomfort bordering on pain returned. Stiles stilled, noticing the slight grimace that must be on Derek’s face, letting him get used to the stretch. 

Eventually Derek tugged on Stiles’ hair again and he started to move in and out, slowly picking up speed, slickly pushing and pulling. Time lost all meaning again; Stiles fucked him with his fingers until his legs were a quivering mess, until he was uttering streams of oaths, until he was squirming and begging for more. 

He vaguely thought he heard Stiles mutter something that sounded like, “I could watch this all day…” But Derek was too far gone to respond. 

He gathered himself enough to get Stiles’ attention again. “Come on, I’m ready. Just...fuck me already.” 

Stiles’ eyes flashed as he slowly removed his fingers and tore off a packet from the strip. Derek gripped his wrist, stilling his movements. 

He ripped off a corner of the foil, his fingers a little unsteady as he held the piece of latex in his hand, waiting for Stiles to move a little closer. He rolled it on Stiles, giving the length a few pumps before opening the bottle of lube and pouring some onto Stiles’ rubber-clad dick. Stiles moaned as Derek moved his fist over his cock a few more times before backing off and leaning down to kiss him. 

Stiles pulled back and searched Derek’s eyes, asking a silent question. Derek gave him a small, sincere smile, and that was apparently all the approval Stiles needed. 

He grabbed the second pillow and placed it under Derek's hips. Then he knelt between his legs again, and Derek felt the head of his cock nudge gently against his hole. Derek took a deep breath and exhaled as Stiles pushed past and slid inside. 

There was less burn and discomfort than he had expected; Stiles opened him up well. He tried not to focus on just how Stiles might have gained that experience--at least not yet, anyway. He breathed deeply again as Stiles canted his hips forward and rocked a little bit more of himself inside Derek. 

One more push and Stiles was fully seated inside him, and then the pain hit, but still nothing like what he had thought might happen. Stiles remained still, and Derek tried to figure out what he felt. 

Full was the most accurate description. It was a little surreal: his boyfriend, Stiles, was inside him. It felt incredibly intimate, to say the least. 

The burning pain receded, and Derek looked up at Stiles, who had a look of intense concentration etched onto his face. Derek reached out and dug his fingers into the meat of Stiles' hip. 

"Fucking...fuck! Move!"

Stiles pulled out slowly, then slid back inside. The stretch and pull on his rim and the spark of pleasure that came with it began to replace the ache and odd feeling of being full. 

Stiles' rhythm was stilted at first, but he picked up speed and was rocking in and out of Derek at a pace that made Derek grunt with every thrust. One of Stiles' hands gripped Derek's dick and started pumping in time with the motion of his hips. The other hand rested on Derek's chest, fingers digging into the skin every so often. 

Derek looked up at Stiles, a fine sheen of sweat already covering his lean body, expression full of ecstasy. He glanced down at Derek, or more like his hand on Derek's torso, and he seemed dissatisfied with something, if his near growl meant anything. He tried to move his hand to Derek's neck, but it was impossible to keep his balance, and he had to throw his hand out beside Derek's body on the bed. He tried to recover by kissing Derek deeply, but Derek couldn't focus on the kiss; the new position drove Stiles even deeper into Derek and it hit _that_ spot. He moaned loudly into Stiles' mouth, hands scrabbling and clawing into his back. 

That feeling of intensity building was back at the base of his spine; his legs, his entire body, was nothing but nerve endings cascading bursts of pleasure with tinges of pain throughout it. He felt as though he could ascend into oblivion, be reduced to nothing but the way Stiles was thrusting in and out of him in any moment. 

Stiles was back at Derek's ear, mouth working the skin of his jaw, brushing over the stubble and adding another pinpoint of hot forge fire to the conflagration that was his body. 

"Yeah, c'mon. Come for me. Come on..." Stiles was whispering. It was more breathing really, a pant as he leaned back, still pumping Derek's cock with his own pistoning in and out, losing its rhythm but gaining speed. 

Stiles moaned just as he hit the spot inside Derek that made him feel like he could reach out and touch the stars he saw, and that was it for him. He was coming over Stiles' fist and abdomen, spurting over his own stomach and torso, head thrown back at the intensity of his orgasm. 

Coming back down slowly to reality, he felt Stiles' hand leave his dick, his hips stuttering, and he realised that Stiles was coming, too. Inside him. He moaned, legs twitching, clenched his ass muscles, causing Stiles to cry out in pleasure. 

A few more weak cants of his hips and then Stiles stilled, slowly pulling out of Derek and basically collapsing to the side of Derek--half on and half off him. He wasn't quite crushing his arm, but it was a near thing, and it made him want to laugh. 

But he was too blissed out to do anything but be awash in the mellow afterglow of sex. It...had been amazing. Stiles had done his best to make it good; Derek wanted nothing more than to tell him that, but his muscles were jelly, his desire-to-will ratio zero. 

He vaguely felt the bed rise and then dip a few moments later, and a damp cloth was washing his torso and abdomen clean, even paying some attention to his dick, which twitched weakly, unable to muster more interest than that. 

Fingers combed through Derek’s sweaty fringe, parting it to the side and out of his eyes, then curved down to trace the ridge of his brow, around his eye and down his cheek. Derek hummed, pleased with the feather-light touches. 

He felt the mattress move again and the rustle of something off to the side. 

“I should probably go,” Stiles murmured from somewhere. 

“Hmm… Are you sure?” Derek asked, grinning, eyes still closed, still basking in the feeling of his hormone-soaked brain. 

Stiles laughed, but Derek wasn’t paying enough attention to notice that it sounded wet and choked off. “I’m sure. Your family is probably sure to get home soon.”

Derek hummed again, content to agree with anything, barely able to keep his attention on anything except the pleasant ache his entire body was emitting. 

"I'm going to set your alarm for like twenty minutes, okay? You need to get up and put clothes on before they get home." 

Another hum answered him. A kiss was gently placed on his forehead, though he wished it had been his lips, a faint buzz felt underneath his skin there. 

He'd write off the damp spots felt there as sweat when he awoke. 

************* 

"I cannot believe you haven't seen Andrew Garfield as the Amazing Spider-Man, dude!" Stiles flailed as soon as he was able to pick his jaw from the floor where it had dropped upon Derek's admission. 

Derek just laughed, relishing in spending a lazy Sunday afternoon and evening with Stiles. He had woken up alone and slightly disorientated Friday, alarm blaring from his phone. It had been disappointing, waking up to find Stiles gone, though he'd settled when Stiles had explained himself again with a grin that _almost_ reached his eyes. Derek had made a mental note to bring it up again later, but not while he was getting so worked up over Derek's lack of experience in the Marvel 'verse. 

"So here's the plan, Stan," Stiles said, plopping down on the couch, a little more space between them than Derek would have liked. 

He glanced up the stairs, where the sheriff was sleeping off his string of all-nighters before he had to return to day shifts for the next week, assuming that was the reason Stiles had chosen for his lack of contact. Derek would fix that once whatever flick Stiles chose started playing. His skin itched with the desire to do nothing more than gather Stiles in his arms and keep him there--preferably forever. 

Stiles fiddled with the remotes until he cued up the Spider-Man film from his DVR and settled back on the couch with a content sigh. 

"Prepare to be blown away by the incomparably gorgeous and adorably dorky Andrew Garfield," Stiles said with a crooked grin slanted at Derek. 

Derek's nostrils flared as red hot jealousy soared through his veins, surprising him at how quickly and brightly it reared up inside him. Obviously Derek had nothing to worry about: Garfield was an actor and Stiles was actually trying to rile him up by the shape of that grin and the twinkle in his eyes. 

And Derek was certain he had fallen in love with Stiles, and even though they'd not said the words to one another, he thought Stiles returned the feelings. Or at least he hoped it wasn't wishful thinking. 

He looked over at Stiles as the opening scene unfolded on the TV. He had a small, sad smile on his face, and that's when he realised the subtitles weren't flashing on the screen. 

Derek rolled his eyes at Stiles' tendency toward the ridiculous and was about to pull the other boy into his arms and tell him it was more than all right to turn them on when a ring from the doorbell quickly followed by a knock that tattooed a drum beat. 

He could have growled at the interruption, but instead he put his hand on Stiles' shoulder and told him there was someone at the door. 

"Hmm? Oh!" He blushed for some reason and fished his phone out of his pocket with a sheepish grin. "I didn't even feel it go off..." 

He shot off the couch, tossing the mobile on the cushion behind him and walked over to open the front door. Derek slowly followed. 

The door swung wide and Derek saw a flash of pink and green before Stiles was enveloped into a hug that must have completely caught him off guard, given his frozen form and still arms. 

Rage and panic raced through his veins, thinking that the person crushing Stiles in a hug that looked slightly unwelcome might be the same person who had tied him up in his own bed and tortured him on that flagpole. In a moment of clarity, Derek realised that the colours he had seen were actually the guy’s hair, dyed neon pink and a darker green. He stopped in his march over to Stiles’ would-be attacker, having difficulty reconciling the person who’d been harassing Stiles with the guy hugging him just then. 

Anger and trepidation dissolved into Derek seeing the red film of jealousy cloud his vision as the interloper pulled back and planted a kiss directly on Stiles’ lips! His feet moved and he was shoving the guy away from Stiles before he realised what he was doing. He glanced back at Stiles who had a confused frown gracing his features, still rooted to the spot. 

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Derek asked, anger lacing his voice. 

He searched the stranger’s face and saw that it was covered in piercings and varying types of metal and plastic lined his ears, too. Underneath all of those distractions, he could tell objectively that the guy was good looking, which made his jealousy burn all the hotter. Before that day, Derek had never considered himself to be a jealous person, but he was being proven horribly misguided. 

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Stiles stepped out in front of him. Derek frowned. 

“Oh, my god-- _Preston_?” Stiles said, voice going up in shock and what sounded like faint delight. 

Stiles knew the guy? He wasn’t sure if that resulted in relief or just more confusion flooding his veins. His first thought was ex-boyfriend, but he was fairly certain he had been Stiles’ first...everything. His frown deepened, especially when Stiles launched himself into--Preston’s--arms for another hug, one that he both instigated and reciprocated that time. 

“I can’t believe you’re here! And you got them!” Stiles extricated himself from Preston and touched a spot on his head. 

That’s when Derek realised he had a device there, a cochlear implant, which only raised more questions for Derek. Stiles was suddenly buzzing with excitement, basically bouncing on his toes. The two of them flashed signs at each other, much too fast for Derek to catch other than a couple words, if he even understood them correctly. 

Stiles’ grin grew, and Derek felt so completely out of the loop as he crossed his arms across his chest and took a couple steps back as Stiles dashed off in the direction of the stairs before skidding to a stop. He backtracked so quickly he tripped over his feet and nearly crashed to the ground. Before Derek could reach out and stop him, Preston caught him and brought him back upright. 

Derek took a deep breath to restrain himself from yelling in pure frustration. He didn’t know what was wrong with him--well, that wasn’t quite true. It was obvious the problem was sudden and fierce jealousy, but he didn’t like it. He definitely didn’t want to feel that way. He didn’t want anything negative associated with Stiles. 

“We’re going to take him to that diner. The one with the curly fries? His love for those potatoey creations almost outshines mine!” His grin slipped a little as he took in Derek’s expression, who tried to school it into something more neutral than the frown he was sure didn’t look very inviting at the moment. “I mean, i-if you want.” 

Derek tried--and probably failed--for a smile and nodded his assent. Stiles pecked a kiss onto his cheek in response. 

“Great! Let me just go grab my wallet. I’ll explain everything when we get there, promise.” And then he was off, running up the stairs. 

And suddenly Derek was left downstairs with Preston, and the tension ratcheted up a few more notches, though it didn’t seem to affect the other guy in the least. Preston stood there serenely, and Derek took a moment to look him over. He was wearing an unusual sweater that left one of his shoulders bare, covered in loose-looking threads that made it look like a woolly, fur-covered thing. Underneath was a long multi-coloured tank top that stretched to his knees, jean-clad and covered in holes and what looked like paint spatters. The jeans were rolled from the ankle, almost to his knees, exposing calf-high boots that were...heeled? Derek had never seen anyone dressed like that, ever. 

And the way Preston held himself, aloof and carefree, it worked. It certainly didn’t look bad on him, and it almost made Derek angrier at the guy. Not the way he was dressed, but the way he didn’t seem to realise how he was affecting Derek; it was like a negative feedback loop. Derek’s frustration bleeding out into the room and raising the tension with Preston’s detached attitude feeding into Derek’s frustration… 

He shook his head to try and clear it and stretched out a hand toward Preston. “I’m Derek.” 

Preston pressed his hand into Derek’s and shook it once. Derek noted that his fingernails were professionally manicured and lacquered with a clear polish; a quick glance to his other hand showed similar nails but painted in a shimmering green colour. 

“Preston. Stiles told me _all_ about you.” He smiled at Derek as though sharing a secret. His voice was yet another surprise; it was even deeper than Stiles’. Derek placed him at being maybe a full year older than Derek. 

_How in the world does he know Stiles?_ He wanted to demand answers from the guy standing before him, one leg crossed behind the other, looking with some interest around the room, but Stiles had promised to give them soon enough. 

“Strange that he didn’t extend the same courtesy for you,” Derek said blandly. 

Preston smirked in response, and Derek bristled--if humans had any territorial instincts like other animals, he would probably be baring his teeth by then. 

Stiles returned, grin still in place though it expanded when he saw Preston again, oblivious to the thick strain between the two guys before him. Derek grabbed Stiles’ hand in his, and Stiles happily laced his fingers with Derek’s, and he felt a few of the knots between his shoulders loosen, as he was led outside toward his Camaro. Derek reached out to open the door and lift the seat for Preston to climb in, smiling politely at the guy as he complied. 

The knots came back as Stiles asked if it’d be okay for him to ride in the back, too, so he could more easily talk to Preston. He really didn’t want to be that guy, the one who didn’t think it was appropriate for his boyfriend to have other friends or spend time in the company of others, but there was something off-putting in Preston’s attitude. 

But Derek told him that of course it was all right with him, that any friend of Stiles was a friend of his, which, in retrospect, might have been a mistake. The side eye that Stiles gave him along with a smile told him he was acting oddly, laying it on too thickly. 

The drive to the diner was spent in uncomfortable silence, at least on his part, though it was by no choice of his. Looking back in his rearview mirror, he saw their fingers flashing and occasionally heard peals of laughter. Derek’s eye twitched at Preston’s continued smirk whenever he glanced up at Derek, which only grew with bonus added eyebrow quirk at Derek’s decision to turn the radio on to try and cover the silence. 

It was with great relief when Derek hopped out of the car after parking at the nearly empty diner--it was the middle of the afternoon, after all--and ran to the other side to open the door for Stiles--and reluctantly Preston. It was nearly impossible to reach from the backseat. 

Derek also held open the door to the restaurant, Stiles grinning at him and rolling his eyes at the same time, and Preston using the excess length of his tank top as a skirt to give him a mock curtsy, straightening before Stiles glanced back at the two of them. 

Stiles had asked the hostess, a tired-looking woman by the name of Nancy, not the same grandmotherly woman who had served them during their date, for a table for three, though they obviously had their pick of the place, being the only patrons in the place. 

Stiles excitedly pulled the both of them along by the hand to a booth near the windows, and he manhandled Derek into the booth first, quickly following suit, making Preston sit across from him. 

“This is Preston O’Flaherty. If he’s not been a rude asshat and not introduced himself already.” 

He gave a grin to Preston, who returned it in a manner that said they were sharing some sort of joke. Derek just hoped he wasn’t the butt of it. With Stiles, it honestly could be anything. 

“Preston, this is Derek Hale, my...boyfriend.” Stiles shot a questioning look at Derek, as though he was uncertain at using the descriptor. Like Derek hadn’t been the one to use it first. “It used to be Ó Flaithbertaigh, but his family decided long ago that was too complicated. Personally, I think he’s lying through his teeth and they’re all actually fugitives running from Irish law enforcement.” 

Stiles leaned back and laughed with his whole body, throwing his head back and exposing his long neck--and Derek realised that was the worst time and place to have an inappropriate thought, and he squirmed a little in his side of the booth. Preston gave him a calculating look, and his expression seemed as though he knew exactly what Derek had thought before returning his attention to Stiles. 

“As a kid, I always tried to turn him into my dad, and I think Preston always resented me a little bit for it. I even drafted up a warrant and mailed it to his house--he’s from San Francisco.” He grinned at Preston--again. Derek tried not to grit his teeth. 

Derek turned to Stiles and cleared his throat. “So--uh--how did you two meet?” 

Stiles’ smile slipped a little and grew sad. “Well, our moms introduced us, if obliquely. Like right after I learned to talk and was starting to learn sign language. There’s this company, Face2Face, that specialises in pairing up deaf children with other deaf children or those who are learning ASL--like me--so they can interact with kids like them. It’s basically a video pen pal thing, but anybody can sign up; the deaf community was just their targeted audience.” 

Preston drew Stiles’ hand across the table and held it in both of his. “And I got so lucky to be chosen for this guy here,” he said, with a smile that was all for Stiles. 

Stiles blushed, embarrassed, and he removed his hand--Derek _didn’t_ breathe a sigh of relief--to fiddle with the salt cellar. “Preston is probably the reason I’m so good at sign language. Or like to think I am--whatever.” He waved a hand, brushing off the thought of his prowess at the language. “He’s my oldest friend; I met him a year and more before Scott.”

Derek fidgeted at the mention of Scott, remembering his conversation with his teammate from a few days ago. Stiles didn’t seem to notice, eyes distant and lost in memory. He felt a little relief in Stiles’ phrasing of their relationship, if still unsettled by Preston’s blatant flirting. 

“Then, after my mom… Well, let’s just say I was a shit friend to him and didn’t keep in contact. A week ago or so I decided to get my old camera out and film another video to send to him. I didn’t get a response, so I figured he’d either terminated his account or was just giving me the cold shoulder like I deserved.” Stiles shrugged self-deprecatingly, and Derek frowned. 

“I figured you’d think that, which is why I decided to show up in person!” Preston spread his arms wide as if putting himself on display. 

Stiles laughed. “Last I knew, you were anti-car. What’d you do, hitchhike?” 

“Of course I’m still against those metal death traps. I took a couple trains. Then I just walked from the next closest town with a depot--apparently yours is abandoned? It wasn’t that far, and who doesn’t like a short hike in this brisk weather?” 

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You seemed to make out okay in my ‘metal death trap,’” he deadpanned. 

Preston laughed, though it sounded as though it was at his expense more than anything else. “Well, I had this delightful creature to distract me from the horrors of driving.” The implied _your_ hung in the air between them.

Preston turned back to Stiles. “I never held your silence against you. Your mom wrote to mine, telling her to expect the worst and that it… Well, that it would change your world. When she broke the news to me, I bawled all over the place, even as a fifteen-year-old. It broke my heart to know you had to go through that. I packed a bag and told my mom I was running away to live with you.” Preston gave a small smile to Stiles. 

Derek was a little surprised, and a little upset, that he would dredge all of that back up, and felt justified when he looked at Stiles and saw a tear making its way down his cheek. But Stiles was returning the smile before he wiped at his face with the sleeve of his jacket, murmuring a _sorry_ under his breath. At least Preston had the grace to look a little chagrined at the effect he’d had on Stiles. 

Then the waitress finally came to their table and took their drinks order and Stiles’ and Preston’s simultaneous order of curly fries along with Derek’s club sandwich. He wasn’t all that hungry, but he figured it would be better to eat then, and he didn’t want to feel even more out of the loop. 

The rest of the afternoon went like that, with Stiles and Preston laughing over shared memories and catching up on the years in between. Sometimes the conversations dissolved into using ASL, hands and fingers flying through signs and gestures, but mostly it was kept to oral speech. 

Stiles asked about the implants, explaining to Derek that Preston had been born deaf in both ears and that they’d saved for years for the implants because the family’s insurance had opted to consider the procedure elective and would cover only a small portion of the expense. Preston explained that the procedure had gone well, but therapy and learning to hear with it had been extensive. He said that hearing with them wasn’t like what they would think, but it was hard to explain. Preston loved them, though, and that brought a bittersweet smile to Stiles’ face. 

Derek eventually had to leave to get home; it was his turn for kitchen duty. He had planned on inviting Stiles, but it was apparent that he’d prefer to spend the rest of the evening catching up with Preston, and he wouldn’t begrudge him that. Stiles grabbed the check before he could, reaching into his pocket for his wallet and literally skipped off to pay. 

Derek was left standing there awkwardly yet again with Preston. Derek absently wondered if that was by design. He offered, reluctantly as ever, a ride to Preston whenever he decided to make his way back to whatever town had the train depot, thinking that it would be the best way to take the high road--and perhaps a sort of penance for being that jealous monster he despised. Stiles had done nothing to warrant it, even if Preston had. 

Preston chuckled quietly, giving him a polite thanks and telling him that Stiles had said he’d persuade his dad to give them one. Derek nodded and shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. 

Stiles leapt into his line of sight, startling Derek into taking a step back, with a giant grin on his face and a sucker in his mouth. “Nancy said I’m a cute little thing so she gave me one of these.” 

Preston laughed and slung his arm around Stiles’ shoulders and whispered conspiratorially, “That’s because you are.” 

The drive back to Stiles’ house was a lot more enjoyable than the drive to the diner had been. For starters, Stiles chose to sit up front with Derek that time, and he latched onto Derek’s hand, twining their fingers, raising it up to kiss the knuckles. Derek flushed as he drove, and glanced in the mirror. Preston was sitting dead centre with a knowing smile on his face. 

Once he parked in the driveway of the Stilinski home, Stiles leaned over and pressed a soft, chaste kiss that lasted for far too short a time before whispering a goodbye and clambering out of the Camaro, clearly okay with Derek not walking him up to his door like he always did. 

Derek was the one who wasn’t sure he was okay with that.

**********************

The first words Derek heard when he returned home weren’t ones he normally liked to hear. 

“Derek Alexander, I think we need to talk.” 

Talia was once again sitting in the living room, alone, with nothing but a lamp turned on for light as Derek walked into the house. Derek shook his head and deliberately walked over to the switch and flipped on the overhead light. 

“Sit down, you’re giving me a crick in the neck,” Talia said, patting the cushion on the sofa next to her. 

Derek sighed heavily and obliged. 

“First, tell me you at least used protection.” 

Derek could have fallen off the couch in surprise. He was sure he felt his heart come to a complete stop, mouth gaping. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look. The entire _house_ reeked of you two. Even the boys wondered at the smell,” Talia said, face completely expressionless, not giving any indication on how she felt about the matter at all. 

Derek could only nod in answer, words and how to form them escaping him at the moment. 

“Good.” Then she smiled at him. “As long as he makes you happy, and treats you well… Just, use some air freshener next time?” 

The memory brought a dopey smile to Derek’s face. “Yeah, Ma, he makes me really happy.” 

She shook her head at him. Then flicked his nose. “And why did I have to hear about his attack in passing from your sisters?” 

Derek scratched the back of his neck, giving his mom a weak, sheepish smile. The incident had never been on the news, for all that Derek knew, though he was certain it had spread through town like a wildfire, what with all those students taking videos and pictures of him. Stiles had said something about the sheriff threatening the local news team with a plague of traffic and parking violations and restrictions so thick they’d never get within a mile of any crime scene or accident again. 

“Is there anything else you’re keeping from me?” Talia asked in a tone that implied she would know if he were to lie--or that she already knew more than she was letting on. 

“I--” Derek cut himself off. 

It wasn’t his place to tell, was it? If Stiles was actually having a problem, he’d talk to somebody, right? But right then, Derek needed to talk to someone about it, and who better than his mother? Mothers were known for their curealls. And Derek really was worried about Stiles. He hadn’t really bought the story that Stiles and fallen on some stairs to get those bruises. And that doubt called into question several other times that Stiles had had injuries with feeble excuses. 

So Derek told Talia of how he’d found Stiles trapped in his own bed, the lock picked on his front door, and his suspicions that it had been the same person. He told her how he thought it had just been some nasty prank, but if they added it all together, including any suspicious wounds… Well, it was bad. Somebody was physically harassing Stiles, viciously, and it was escalating. And he honestly had no idea who it could be.

Talia surprised him by confessing that the day she’d been at the sheriff’s department for an official council visit hadn’t been the only reason she’d been there. She’d been sussing out the sheriff, thinking that he might have been responsible. She almost immediately dropped the suspicion during her meeting with him; she’d known the man for her entire adult life and more, and hadn’t really thought that he’d be the one to do it, not with the way he so obviously loved his son, but figured that he’d be the best place to start. 

Then her pensive face grew sad. She should have known not to drop it completely; but neither of them had come forward with anything, and she hadn’t known where to begin. 

“So we need to talk to him. Get him to confide in us. We know something is wrong, and we need to show him that we care enough to help.” 

Derek made a face. “Like an intervention.” 

“Whatever you want to call it, Derek.” She levelled a look at him that made him flinch back. “Unless you’d rather sit and do nothing and wait for whoever it is attack him again, and this time it’s nothing so benign as tying him to a pole.” 

“He’s catching up with an old friend right now at his house, but I can bring him home after classes tomorrow,” he said, not wanting to interrupt his limited time with Preston. 

“If I didn’t know any better, you sound jealous.” Talia gave him a mischievous smile. 

Derek rolled his eyes and blushed. Both of them started at the noise of the front door slamming shut; they hadn’t been paying any attention to the hallway outside the entry to the living room. Suddenly Laura tossed herself onto the couch beside Derek. 

“Was that Matt leaving just now?” Talia asked Laura.

“Yeah, said he forgot he had to get home and cook dinner,” she said, crossing her legs on the cushion as though settling in for the next episode of whatever teen soap opera she watched those days. “Who’s Derek jealous of? And who are we intervening?” 

“Laura, what did I tell you about listening in on conversations?” Talia tutted, then looked to Derek. “Though I do think that the more people who show him that they mean well, the more likely it is he’ll open up. I’d even vote for getting the sheriff here, but sometimes--and this will shock you that I actually know this--talking to your own parent can be harder than talking to a friend’s.” 

Derek and Laura both rolled their eyes at their mother’s attempt at a joke, but Derek nodded his agreement, and so Talia and Derek brought Laura into the fold. 

Derek just hoped that whatever it was they were doing would amount to something and help Stiles, not hurt him. 

************************

The next day, Derek got a text from Stiles telling him he was skipping school since he was feeling ill. So Derek decided to skip the morning classes at least, figuring he was in good enough standing with Harris that the teacher would go over the lesson from the day individually. He changed directions and headed to the store, planning on getting some soup and other comfort food, whatever Stiles might like. 

Last night, after the Hales had finished discussing their plans, whatever they end up being, Derek had received a couple of messages from Stiles that made him feel a little more than a tad foolish. 

_[Message from: Stiles Stilinski]_  
 _I hope you don’t hate Queen P (And I quote, “It’s Queen P to him!” I wouldn’t ask) too much._  
 _[Yesterday, 19.54]_

Derek had responded in the negative, that he hadn’t hated Preston--though he’d left off the _too much_ that he wanted to add. 

_[Message from: Stiles Stilinski]_  
 _Apparently he employed what he’s calling his vetting process on you. He grudgingly admits that you passed with flying colours._  
 _[Yesterday, 19.58]_

Stiles had gone on to explain that Preston used that technique--of pretending that he was interested in his friends--whenever one of them got a new boyfriend or girlfriend in order to screen their new prospectives. Usually the new guy or girl got insanely jealous--which Derek had, but hadn’t admitted, just in case Stiles still wasn’t in the know-- _and_ both acted it and possessively. Derek was the first to have passed with such high regard from Preston. 

He just hoped Preston didn’t hold his breath waiting for Derek’s thank you card in the mail. 

Shortly after that the texts had abruptly stopped. Derek figured that he’d been busy saying goodbye to Preston or something and hadn’t pestered him with messages for the rest of the night. 

Derek gathered his purchases at the checkout and then made his way over to the Stilinski household. The cruiser was gone, as expected since the sheriff resumed his normal banker’s hours shift--though he admittedly was the one to work the most overtime on the force. 

He rang the doorbell, juggling the giant and heavy vase of flowers--all blue, since Stiles had seemed to appreciate the colour more than anything else; he’d seen Stiles carefully touch the petals on the now desiccated wildflower he had brought him the other day, and the nice lady at the store had let him pick and choose from the different bouquets in the fridge at the market, especially since he’d been buying the largest vase they had--and his bag of food. 

An answer took so long that he figured Stiles was asleep, and he was about to let himself in when he heard a rustling and the _snick_ of a lock, and the door slowly swung open. 

The vase crashed to the ground, scattering shards of glass and bright, colourful beads and bits of petals and stems everywhere, and the bag of food in cans and boxes fell with a dull thud. 

“Oh, my god.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit sex between two characters. I've not tagged it because a) I don't want to give spoilers in the tags until the chapters been read by most; then I'll add more tags for increased ease of accessibility, and b) I've not tagged it as underage because I'm not certain if that applies if both characters are underage or if one is above the age of consent. I couldn't find a definition on AO3 for what they prefer. If somebody would like to hit up my [askbox](http:/www.codarra.tumblr.com/ask) and let me know, I'll gladly fix it. 
> 
> Also, there is a brief discussion regarding the harassment of Stiles; I feel as though it doesn't need to be tagged as abuse, but if anyone disagrees, again, let me know. 
> 
> As always, feel free to follow me on [tumblr](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com) or browse around!


	13. Betraying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which a desperately needed conversation happens, and something comes to light that may change their lives--and their relationship--forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, chapter 13! And it surpasses my previous record-holder, coming in at about 17.5K words! 
> 
> A special thank you goes out to [leviathanlost](http://www.leviathanlost.tumblr.com) for giving this a quick once over to make sure I wasn't missing anything glaringly obvious. And, of course, to [messajo](http://www.messajo.tumblr.com) for sticking with me through the end. And always to [lunawho47](http://www.lunawho47.tumblr.com) for being the beta to end all betas. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Stiles winced, dabbing a damp cloth at his face to wipe away the blood. The cuts on his face were shallow if numerous--that ring could do a lot of damage in its irony; who knew a guy like that had any sort of school pride? They had stopped bleeding before he he’d fallen asleep, he’d made sure of that. But his thrashing from the nightmare he’d had must have reopened them. 

He didn’t remember much of the dream aside from a lot of running and hiding and waking up more anxious than he’d been in a long time. Stiles was just grateful that it happened after his father had gone off to work that morning. 

His phone screen flashed from its place on the bathroom counter. Stiles grimaced, hoping it was just a text from Derek wishing him well on his way to school. Then it flashed again, as Stiles wiped at a particularly long and painful gash on his cheek, and Stiles groaned, knowing it wasn’t a text. 

Sighing, Stiles picked up the phone and nearly dropped it in blind panic when he saw just who was at the door. Of course Derek would choose to surprise him at exactly the wrong moment. The guy's literal only fault was inopportune timing. 

He packed up the kit, mind whirling to come up with some sort of cover story, something believable. All of the muscles in his body seemed to protest his every action as he slowly made his way down the stairs. 

Stiles took a deep breath, approaching the front door, weighing the pros and cons of the lies--very tiny, white lies that would help more than hinder, the stubborn part of his mind argued--he had come up with, and he gripped the doorknob tightly. His knuckles flared with white hot pain, small drops of blood squeezing out underneath the scabs on them. Stiles smiled darkly, thinking of it as a sort of punishment he was forced to endure for lying to Derek, the person he least wanted to be dishonest with, no matter the reasons for keeping his silence. 

He almost laughed at the incongruity of it all: he’d begun the new year wanting to keep his mouth shut, always having been told to do so, and just when he wanted to open up to somebody--and had already done so on an incredibly intimate level, not even including the sex (which opened up an entirely different can of worms); something he’d never thought he’d be able to do--and he was forced to remain silent. 

He expelled the breath forcefully, screwing his face up into what he hoped was a convincing smile--never mind the itching burn that tugged on his swollen, torn lips--and he turned the bolt and opened the door wide. 

Stiles had a split second view of a giant vase filled to bursting with blue flowers before it crashed to the ground in a shower of petals, glass and beads, the water in it flooding the steps leading to his front door. 

His smile became a little more authentic, and he leaned down to gather up a few of the lesser damaged ones. “Oh, are these for me?” 

Derek reached out a hand to steady him, or help him-- _not_ to hit him, Stiles _knew_ that--but that didn’t keep him from flinching violently, flailing out with a hand to swipe Derek’s away and landing harshly on his backside. 

He clutched a blue rose in his fist, the snapped off thorns digging into his skin. “I’m sorry--I didn’t mean--” The words choked off in Stiles’ throat, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. 

Stiles looked up at Derek, whose face was shifting between hurt and confusion. His boyfriend slowly reached out his hand, pausing just before him, and Stiles grasped his wrist to avoid Derek accidentally grazing his knuckles as he pulled him to his feet. 

“What happened?” Derek’s fingers were suddenly near his face, like he was about to trace the cuts littering Stiles’ face, and he immediately ducked back inside the house.  
Stiles fetched a broom and dustpan and began sweeping up the debris. Derek knelt and held the dustpan for him. 

“I fell--” Stiles looked at Derek. His expression cut him off, and he knew he couldn’t go down that route again. He bit his lip, hissing in pain when his teeth touched the split there. 

He finished sweeping up the mess into the pan, and Derek dumped it in the bag that Stiles thought contained cans of something, then threw the whole thing in the trash bin near the garage. He pointed at the Camaro. 

“Get in.” 

Stiles gave him the side eye. “Derek, I don’t want to go to school.” 

Derek levelled a look at him that sent chills down his spine before he repeated himself. So Stiles hunched his shoulders and grabbed the key from under the mat to lock the front door, then stuck it in his pocket. He reluctantly tossed himself into the passenger seat of the car, hoping desperately that Derek wasn’t thinking about taking him to his dad--or worse, school. 

Derek slowly rounded the vehicle, fishing out his phone, fingers flying across the screen before he hopped in, too. Starting the car, he backed up and headed in a direction opposite from basically everything in town, which meant they were going to his house. Stiles frowned, wondering why Derek would want to bring him there. 

His face was a mask as Stiles studied it, giving nothing away as to his inner thoughts, though every so often his grip would shift and squeeze the steering wheel. He made no effort at conversation, and Stiles was both weirdly grateful and a little put off by the continued silence. So he went for his tried and true method. 

“Would you believe that I found Beacon Hills’ very own Whomping Willow?” Nothing. “I mean, you should see the state I left _it_ in.”  
Still there was no outward reaction aside from a flicker of Derek’s eyes as they glanced over at him and a slight tightening around his mouth. There might have been a clenching and unclenching of his jaw. 

Stiles huffed and turned away from Derek, looking outside the window, planning on ignoring him just as well as he was being ignored. 

Needless to say that it made the ride interminable. 

When the two of them finally pulled up to the Hale house--and Stiles really wanted to start a campaign to get it named a manor or something; it was just too pretty not to have its own name--he stayed put, giving Derek a stubborn _harrumph_ when he rounded the Camaro to open his door. (And since when had Stiles become so used to him doing that?) 

Derek held out his hand, his expression softening. “Please? Come inside.” 

Stiles sighed heavily. Because who could actually refuse that guy anything? But he turned his nose up--metaphorically speaking, of course--at the proffered hand. He wasn’t a damsel in distress, not then, not ever. 

Except for how much he really was. 

Stiles threw himself onto the sofa when they got inside, and he froze when he realised that he wasn’t exactly in his own home. Derek noticed his stillness and gave him an exasperated look. 

“Like you’ve not made yourself at home here before,” he said before walking into the kitchen and bringing back a couple of bottles of water. He tossed one to Stiles, who’d never been exceptionally good at the surprise-catch game, and it grazed his fingertips to fling itself into his already bruised eye. 

“Oh, fuck!” Stiles muttered, clutching at his face and squeezing his eyes shut. 

Then he started to laugh because that was basically the summary of his life. He laughed until his chest hurt, which didn’t take very long given his current condition; until his sides ached with it. He felt faint whispers of touches along his face, and his breath caught in his throat, trapped there as it squeezed off the air to his lungs. 

He opened his eyes to find Derek there before him, fingertips hovering and lightly tracing his face and the wounds and bruises; he was mumbling something, but through the pain in his eye, Stiles couldn’t make it out--he assumed it was a litany of apologies. His breath came back to him in a rush as he pushed Derek’s hands away and shot up from his seat on the couch. 

“I’m sorry, I just…” He huffed out a breath and turned on his heel to face Derek, forcing a smile. “So you never did tell me what we’re doing here.” 

“Stiles…” Derek said, taking a step forward. 

Stiles matched it with one back, trying hard to not let the hurt that flashed across Derek’s face cut him too deeply. “It’s _fine_ , Derek.” 

That blatant lie set Derek’s lips into a thin line, and Stiles wondered how far he was from throwing in the towel, from giving up completely. Some part of him hoped Derek was miles and miles from it, and another wished he was toeing the line. And he wasn’t sure which part of him was the louder. 

Stiles warily followed as Derek made his way back into the kitchen. The only slightly taller boy pulled out a chair at the little bar complete with stools that spun and pointed. Apparently he was in a bossy mood today. Stiles could deal with that as long as no further questions would be asked of him, so he sat. 

“You’re still dodging my question.” Stiles didn’t think too hard about the hypocrisy of that statement. 

“We’re waiting.” Derek bent down and brought out a skillet. “Do you want eggs or something?” He gave Stiles a small smile. “I know my culinary skills aren’t quite up to the gourmet standards set by yourself--still unproven--and your tastes for such delicacies as curly fries, but I can manage eggs.” 

It was like a weight had been lifted from his chest at the release of Derek’s full-on serious mood. 

“What if I want the ‘or something’ choice from that vast and palatable menu?” 

Derek raised an eyebrow at him. “Eggs or not?” Apparently he had exhausted the resources of fun-Derek. 

So Stiles hunched there, trying to make himself as small as possible. “Yes, please,” he said, looking away from Derek. 

He was about to put his head down, hopefully avoiding the more painful bruises, when suddenly Laura burst into the kitchen, slapping Derek on the ass with a jacket that didn’t look like hers. Stiles nearly fell off the stool in surprise. 

“--emergency, Der-bro?” Laura was asking Derek once he got his mind back on track from its temporary flatline. 

Derek’s body was angled slightly away from Stiles, which frustrated him to no end, and caused him to only catch a few words of his response. “--me that.” 

_Well, that was insightful._

Stiles cleared his throat, thinking that Laura just hadn’t noticed him yet. “What are you doing here? What are we all doing here?” 

“Derek hasn’t told you--” 

Derek caught Laura by the arm and dragged her into the living room, out of sight. Stiles could have screamed. Maybe he was internally; maybe he wasn’t. 

Laura and Derek finally came back into the kitchen; Derek returned to whipping up some eggs and milk in a bowl and pouring them onto the skillet, and Laura took a seat next to him, slinging the jacket over the last stool. Clearly he wasn’t going to get any answers out of her right then, so he changed tactics. 

“So, uh. That looks a little big for you,” Stiles said with a nod in the direction of the article of clothing. 

Laura gave him a bright smile, whether grateful he wasn’t asking anything Derek didn’t want spilled right then, or not, he didn’t know. “Yeah, it’s Matt’s. He forgot it last night when he left. And, by the by, what the hell happened to you?” 

_So he was here before he…_ Stiles highly doubted he would have shown his face back at the Hales after; he wasn’t completely defenceless, after all. The ache in his knuckles proved that. So what the hell set him off? 

Instead of saying anything, Stiles made a small noise of acknowledgement, the wheels in his head turning to try and figure out what exactly had prompted Daehler’s attack last night. He knew that the guy had been raging at him, but Stiles had been a little too busy trying to avoid the barrage of fists, feet, knees, elbows, whatever Matt could throw at him, to understand any of it. 

There were a few more moments of tense silence, and then that was all Stiles could take. 

“Seriously, Laura. Why am I here? Ignore Derek and just tell me,” he said, turning to face her fully, hoping that his channelling of his father’s Sheriff Voice--capitals included--would pay off in the end and not just fall flat. 

Laura still shot a furtive look at Derek. “I think we should wait for…” 

She didn’t finish, not naming the apparently third member to the odd sort of party unfolding before him. But then… He thought about the only other person who Derek could be waiting for, the reason they were at the Hale house, Laura’s “emergency,” and Derek’s continued desire for silence on the matter. 

He was waiting for the Hale matriarch. 

Two plus two equals four, and suddenly it all clicked. 

“Oh, my god. What is this, Hale TV Intervention, special edition starring Beacon Hills’ very own Stiles Stilinski?” Stiles stood up from the stool, the abruptness of his action startling both Laura and Derek and causing the stool to topple over. “I can’t believe… I mean… What would you even have to hold an intervention on me for?” 

He was spluttering, mentally lashing about, fear and fear and more fear building up inside his chest. He needed to get out, out, _out!_  
“I have to--I’m leaving.” 

Stiles virtually ran to the front door, eyes unseeing of Derek and Laura’s hesitation to reach out to him, blinded by unshed tears that he wouldn’t let mark a path down his cheeks. He yanked the door open… 

And ground to a halt. 

Talia Hale, and her formidable presence, filled the doorway entirely. 

Her eyes widened very slightly when she took in the state of him, which he was sure was quite a sight. A bruised and broken face verging on the edge of hysteria, body trembling like his bones want to vibrate out of his skin. 

“Come on, sweetie--Stiles. Let’s go have a chat.” 

Stiles had flinched at the undeserving pet name, and Talia noticed and smoothly changed strides. She effortless gathered him up, and he had no choice but to be led into the dining room. He could see, as he was shepherded into a chair, Derek roughly scrubbing the skillet, removing the bits of dried, burnt eggs. 

Talia went into the kitchen and murmured something to Laura who put a kettle on the stove to boil. Derek turned to his mother, his back to Stiles, and frustration bubbled within him. He did not appreciate being talked about. It didn’t usually lead to good things for him. 

Soon all three of them entered the formal dining room, each carrying something different. Talia was carrying a steaming cup of tea for herself; Laura with a cup filled to the brim and a bottle of honey, a small bowl of sugar, and a creamer that contained milk; Derek held two mugs, one of which he set in front of Stiles. Then the three of them sat opposite him. Apparently they were serving high tea and interrogating him simultaneously. Stiles guessed they couldn’t have pomp without the circumstance. 

He held the mug of tea more to have something do with his hands than to actually drink it; he’d never been the biggest fan of hot tea. He was more of a coffee guy when it came to beverages that scalded tongues and throats on their way down. 

His eyes darted between the three of them, with their varying expressions of mixed concern and study. Talia’s was the most disconcerting, as she seemed to be cataloguing each of the marks on his body she could discern, from the cut on his eyebrow, to the split lip (both upper and lower), the multiple bruises and slashes on his jaw and cheeks, and the bloody knuckles on his hands. Laura’s face was an open book, and the featured chapter was blatant worry. Her brother’s was the one he most wanted to avoid, and therefore, of course, was the most curious about, but he immediately regretted looking. Derek seemed to be trying for complete stoicism, but whatever was going on behind those beautiful eyes must have been too chaotic or overwhelming, because it came across as a mélange of disgruntlement and boredom. 

One of those, frankly, was insulting, and the other Stiles would have taken issue with, too, were it not for the Inquisition council sitting before him. 

They were waiting for something, it looked like--the siblings possibly waiting for their mother to take the lead, and Talia for Stiles to make the first move. He felt as though he were on a giant chessboard, and he was a pawn. The queen was about to strike at the first misstep. 

Well, he wouldn't give her--or any of them--the satisfaction. Talia wanted to chat? He'd let her chatter at him all day, just so long as she stayed far away from any questions he wouldn't--no, couldn't answer. 

So instead of saying anything, he let the warmth of the tea mug seep into his hands and stared into the steam rising from it, ignoring the tension that was emanating from Laura and Derek--Talia was as poised and self-assured as ever, of course. Scientists should study that woman. 

Stiles felt a small thud and looked up to see that Talia had set her cup down with an air of finality about it. 

_So it begins…_

“What’s going on, Stiles?” Talia asked. 

“Well, currently I’m in a dining room with three Hales drinking tea all around me.” 

A small thread of guilt shot through him at giving her lip, but it was his thing, right? Stiles contained a smile as he saw that Laura was biting back laughter, and Derek glanced with worry in his eyes at Talia. He was obviously unused to sarcasm being directed at his mother. 

Talia just smiled serenely. “We merely want to help.” 

Stiles flicked his eyes toward Laura and then back to Talia. _You can’t. Not with this. Not when I’m trying to help...everyone else._ Stiles wanted to laugh at his definition of the term ‘help.’ Even he recognised it was twisted, but what else could he do? 

Last night, Daehler had proven himself to be completely unpredictable, and making one misstep, like talking to the Hales, could end in disaster--whether that would be for him or for someone else, it didn't matter. It had to be prevented at all costs. And Stiles was willing to pay any price. 

_Though… No!_ Stiles tried to stop the traitorous thoughts, but it was too late. At least a small part of him acknowledged that it would be nice--good, even--for someone else to at least _know_ what was happening in his life. 

But whether it was good or nice or anything else didn’t give him the excuse to put others at risk, right? 

_Right..._

“What are you talking about? I’m fine.” Stiles scratched at the back of his head and the sleeve of jacket slipped down to reveal bruises that looked distinctly like fingers curving around his forearm. He hastily snatched his hand down and pulled up the sleeve, but he could already see the damage was done. Talia, at least, had seen. 

“We just want you to know that we’re here for you, and ready to listen no matter what you have to say.” 

Talia was cunning, Stiles could see that. She wasn’t asking direct questions. She wasn’t implying she knew anything, or that she thought she knew something. She was creating a welcoming and warming environment with the tea, the simple statements. But he was the son of a law enforcement officer; he could recognise an interrogation. He was just waiting for the bad cop portion of it. 

“Would you believe I fell down some stairs?” Silence. “No? I’m betting you wouldn’t believe me about a Whomping Willow either?” 

Talia didn’t even have to shake her head, though Laura was having trouble deciding between a laugh and keeping a straight face and feeling bad for almost laughing.  
Stiles wondered if his next move would be considered a fool’s errand or… Well, there was only one way to find out. 

“You want the truth? Okay. The truth is… It was me. All of it. I did it to myself.” 

Derek’s hands clenched so tightly around his mug of tea that Stiles feared it would crack. 

Stiles shrugged with one shoulder. “Yeah. I...I’m the one responsible. I guess I wanted to act out--isn’t that what they say?--after everything that happened.” 

He knew that, should Derek believe him, it would spell the end for them. Who would want to be with someone like that? But maybe it would be for the best, no matter how much it might hurt. It would be for the best, Stiles realised. And he wanted the best for Derek. And since he wasn’t… Well, that didn’t matter right then. 

What he failed to remember was that the Hales weren’t exactly the dullest tools in the shed. And that they’d easily pick up on the continuity and logistical flaws in his admission. 

“So you tied yourself into your own bed with clingwrap.” Derek finally broke his silence, and it was to poke a giant hole in his not-so-brilliant plan. 

Damn them, they’d really thrown off his groove. 

“And you planted yourself on the school’s flagpole, sliced open your own wrists, and spelled out an awful slur on your own chest?” Laura asked, one eyebrow raised. 

Stiles visibly flinched at the casual reminder of that day. The wounds on his wrist had fully healed, of course, but they’d become scars--something that had so obviously been Matt’s intention. To leave a token of his esteem. 

Talia eyed Stiles’ jacket and suddenly flimsy feeling tee shirt. “And I presume that there are other markings on you that the physical limitations of your body would prohibit self-infliction.” 

Stiles could feel it building within him, in the way his fingers and hands were trembling, the way his breaths were picking up and becoming shorter, the way sweat popped out on his skin. The panic was almost like liquid fire shooting along his veins, ratcheting up the tension in his nerves and causing his bones to ache. His eyes widened but it felt like his vision was narrowing. 

Derek slammed his fist down and rose halfway out of his seat; Stiles jumped, his heart bounding into his throat, pulse racing. “Why are you lying?” he asked, anger sketched across his features. 

Talia raised a hand, and Derek immediately quieted, though his facial expression still resembled that of thunder rumbling in the distance. Talia turned back to him, Stiles noted out of the corner of his eye, but his focus was on Derek still. Was he the focus of Derek’s wrath? He was certain he was. Why else would he be angry? Motion caused Stiles to look away to Talia. She was speaking. 

“--Stiles. Stiles. Good. Look at me. Focus on me. It’s okay. It will be okay. Breathe. Breathe in through your nose. Good. Out through your mouth. Yes. Like that. Again. Just focus--” 

Stiles got lost in the motion of her lips, stopped paying attention to what she was saying, focussing only on the fact that she was speaking. He kept breathing, trying to slow down the forced, laboured movement of his chest and lungs, each intake and expiration less and less painful as the vice around his torso released its grip. The buzzing in his head that had nearly taken over everything, the ceaseless flow of errant, frantic thoughts creating chaos in his mind, began to quieten. Eventually it all calmed. 

Stiles closed his eyes, trying to forestall the tears that were just there. He was suddenly cold, and he clutched his arms around himself. He zipped his jacket all the way up.  
When he opened his eyes, he found Derek staring at him, the anger almost completely replaced by concern, eyes large and pleading. “Stiles, who--” 

Stiles shot out of his seat, desperate anger flooding into his throat. “No! Don’t, Derek!” A few tears fell from his lashes. “Don’t you ask questions that I--that I can’t answer.” 

“Why can’t you answer them?” Talia asked, folding her hands together. She knew. She knew she was winning. 

“I just--I--can’t,” Stiles said, unable to form coherent sentences. 

Derek slowly stood. “Please… Stiles, please…” 

And just like that, the fight bled out of him. Stiles sunk back into the chair. He was incredibly exhausted. He was tired of arguing with himself. He was tired of keeping the secret. It was eating him alive. He was tired of fearing the worst every time he rounded a corner or went into a bathroom. He was tired of being afraid in his own home, the place that had always been a sanctuary to him, filled with the memories of his family, the sounds of his mother laughing at his dad who would yell at the television when some ref made a bad call. 

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. He was tired of the feeling of being chased, of being belittled and powerless to help himself. Stiles wanted to help those around him, those that Matt had threatened, but was that what he was really doing? 

Matt had controlled him and his life for too long. Maybe it was time to take it back for himself. 

Then he looked at Derek, and doubts filled him again. Maybe Matt--and most of his schoolmates--were right? After the incident at the flagpole, every so often, he'd get a note or two in his locker. With varying tones and colourful language, they all basically said the same thing: that he deserved it. He deserved what had happened to him and every other bad thing to happen to him in the future. Some went on to mention how wrong he was for Derek; that he was trash or filth and Derek needs someone better in his life. 

And if there were any words that rang truer than those, he wasn't sure what they could be. Derek did deserve the best. And Stiles knew that he wasn't it. So maybe, by continuing to be with him, Matt was the universe's balance? It was him paying his penance. 

His eyes landed on Laura. How could he do that to her? Confess that her boyfriend has been... What's the word for all that he's done to Stiles? Bullied? It felt a little weak, if he was honest. Laura was with Matt. They had seemed genuinely interested in each other. Didn't that count for something? Did that mean that maybe Matt wasn't a truly awful person--that he had redeemable qualities? 

Then he remembered the text he'd gotten shortly after their façade that had masqueraded as a double date. It had been from an unknown number, but clearly it was from Matt. _Thanks for playing along. Now I don't feel like hurting anybody else. Keep it up and it'll stay that way._

If he did tell them, and somebody else got hurt, he’d never be able to forgive himself. He wouldn’t be able to live with that. It would be his fault entirely. But maybe, just maybe, telling them would actually do some good. Maybe it would remove Matt from the picture so he wouldn’t be able to hurt anybody else. 

Stiles took a deep breath and decided to ask a question of his own before he confessed it all. “Why did you choose to do this thing?” 

Derek glanced at Talia before answering. “We talked about it last night and when I saw you this morning--” 

“Just last night?” Stiles interrupted. He looked at the jacket that was still hanging on the stool in the kitchen. 

_He must have heard… And thought I’d told them already._

Stiles wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or maybe both; he wasn’t sure. Talk about self-fulfilling prophecy. 

All three of the Hales before him looked more than a little confused at the small bubbles of slightly hysterical laughter that he was trying to contain. He found that he was staring at Laura, wondering, of all things, how his confession would affect her. Laura frowned back at him, perplexed, and looked at her brother and mother, as though maybe they could explain why he was just looking at her. 

Stiles swallowed down his laughter and took a deep breath. _Here goes…_

He looked away from Laura, away from them all. He couldn’t bear to see their reactions to his admission of guilt and weakness. Even though he’d been trying to do what’s right, he doubted that was how they would see it. 

“I--it’s Matt. Matt Daehler. He’s the--he’s been--he’s the one,” Stiles choked out. The words had to claw their way out, as though they were escaping against his will. And in a way, he supposed, they were. The majority of him wanted to keep the whole thing a secret; he could handle it. But there was a small part that shone the brightest that told him he couldn’t. 

_I guess I’m not strong enough._

He looked up to see varying degrees of shock colouring their faces. Talia was able to compose herself most quickly. Derek’s morphed into anger, and was that disgust in his eyes? He should have known; hell, he did know. Stiles had changed in Derek’s eyes, and it definitely hadn’t been for the better. 

He tore his gaze from Derek just in time to see Laura’s eyes widen, disbelief written into her features. “No,” she said and got up from her seat. Stiles thought he saw her mother calling her name as she dashed off, but she didn’t heed it. 

Her exit, and the incredulity that was intimately tied to it, was worse than anything Matt had done to him last night. Her absence was like a hole in his body, keenly felt. He hadn’t realised that he’d counted so strongly on her support. He didn’t know it would hurt that much. 

Talia rose from her chair, looking toward the stairs with something that looked like distaste on her face, and then turned to Stiles. “Come. We need to go tell your father.”

Stiles’ eyes could have bugged out of his head. “We need to--what?” 

But Talia paid him no more attention as she left the dining room, presumably to gather her things to ready herself for leaving. So he was left there with Derek, whose hands were curled into fists, anger radiating from every line in his body. 

“I… I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Derek said, and Stiles was sure his voice was heated. “We slept together, Stiles. And you kept this from me.” His jaw clenched, the muscles there contracting. 

The air went out of the room. Was it the end? He didn’t want to think about it being over between them. Stiles looked away, tears freely flowing down his cheeks. He wanted the awful day to come to a close so he could forget all about it. But he figured it was just the beginning with worse to come. 

Stiles didn’t notice the look of disapproval that Talia shot her son as he was swept before her. He didn’t see what she said to him that made him look away in shame. Before he knew it, Stiles was in Talia’s car and they were heading down the road in the direction of the sheriff’s department. 

Stiles would have huddled with his knees pressed to his chest, but he didn’t want to get Talia’s seat dirty, so he slouched low in the seat, giving a little hiccough every so often as he tried to contain his crying. 

Talia’s hand covered his own where it was clenched around the material of his jeans. He looked over at her. 

“If I might ask, why did you keep it a secret for so long? Especially after he began dating my daughter?” 

Stiles flinched at the veiled accusation in the questions. He figured it would come. 

“I--can it wait? I’m sure I’ll have to explain everything--there, and I don’t--don’t think I can go through it twice. Just know that--I thought I was doing the right thing,” he said, leaning his head against the window; he didn’t wait for her answer. 

Of course it would start to rain, drops sliding past his eyes down the window. He remembered it raining when his mom was alive, and they would trace the shapes in the tracks of the droplets to distract him from the loud, scary thunder. If it was just simply raining, they would go outside in wellies that were far too large for him and jump around in the puddles. 

He couldn’t help but wonder how much his life would have been different had she not died. Would he have been there, in that moment? Would he have been with Derek?

He closed his eyes as the tears came back in full force, trying to match the rain in strength. 

The rest of the drive was lost to him.

********************

Standing just inside the doorway, Stiles saw Shondra at the front desk--short staffed again. He glanced up at Talia, thinking that maybe she would prefer to take the lead--he'd prefer it, too, actually--but she stood there, simply waiting. She was there in an observational capacity only apparently. 

Shondra looked up for just a second as he took a step forward, but then went back to writing on some paperwork after giving him a cursory smile as greeting.

Stiles bit his lip, blanching at the instant pain that decision brought, when he reached the counter. 

"Hey, Shondra. I'm--uh--I need to report a crime. Or--crimes, really, I guess." 

Shondra's head shot up so fast, he figured she'd need to file a workman's comp for whiplash. Her eyes widened almost comically as they took in the state of him. 

"Oh, my god! Stiles! What happened to my pretty little flower?" 

Throughout her time there at the station, she had always called him her little flower. He never knew if it was a gardening obsession, or a fascination with the woodland creature from Bambi, or just another personality quirk to add to the ever-growing list that was Shondra. 

“Is my dad--uh--the sheriff in?” 

Stiles couldn’t stand to look at the increasing level of concern in her eyes, or the unasked questions, so he walked past the counter into the station proper. He felt more than saw the effect of his presence ripple through the office. Desk by desk, deputies and office workers stopped what they were doing when they noticed him and his startling appearance. 

He could only imagine what they were saying as he walked past, trying to ignore them. 

“ _That’s the sheriff’s son, right?_ ”

“ _I thought his trouble-making days were over…_ ” 

He didn’t know why his mind made them sound like gossiping old hens, but it was probably the truth. 

Stiles knocked on the door to his dad's office and looked at Talia for a nod that would confirm he had been granted permission to enter. 

"Hey, Dad. I need to--" 

The sheriff held up a finger. He was hastily typing something on the computer, using his fingers to hunt and peck out the keys, never having learned to type normally. It brought a smile to his face, even if the interruption buckled his resolve. 

He took a deep breath. "Sorry, Dad. This can't--it shouldn't wait."

Then his dad glanced up and saw Talia Hale standing next to Stiles. "Councilwoman Hale. Always a pleasant surprise. Has my son caused you trouble--" His words cut off as he finally looked at Stiles. 

Stiles grimaced, both at the scrutiny and confusion from his father and at the joking assumption that he was the cause of any trouble. 

"I need to report some crimes," he said simply, knowing it wouldn't be enough right then. 

"Stiles--!" 

"Dad! Please. I'll--I will explain. But--please--once. Only make me do it once." 

The man sitting before him sighed heavily and wiped a hand over his face, but nodded and picked up the receiver to the phone on his desk and barked a few commands into it before replacing it in its cradle. 

"Okay. I have a deputy meeting us in the interrogation room. Not exactly orthodox, but when is anything with you? I figured you'd prefer the privacy. I can't be in the room with you while you're giving your statement but... If I could, would you let me be in the observation room?"

Stiles nodded before he even finishing posing the question. If he couldn't have his dad in the same room, the next one over would have to do. 

"All right. Let's get on with it." The sheriff stood and reached over to open the door, gesturing for Talia to go first. He held Stiles back for a moment. "She's the high-powered councilwoman you have in your back pocket, isn't she?" 

Stiles had to laugh. Sometimes his father had the same penchant for inappropriate timing for certain things as he did. 

“But are you okay, son?” 

He wouldn’t lie and say that his chest didn’t tighten at those words, the one that he’d been waiting for such a long time. He almost opted for his default _I’m fine, Dad_ , but he knew it would fall short. 

“I will be.” 

Talia was waiting patiently in the hallway when Stiles left the office with his dad in tow and followed as they made their way to the department’s single interrogation room. Inside the room was a tired-looking deputy who’d probably been on shift for a while by then. The light of the single bulb hanging above the table glared dully in the reflective surface of the two-way mirror. 

_If only Preston could see this…_ Stiles sniggered to himself. 

The deputy--Warner, Stiles thought his name was; the man had become a deputy just before Stiles had stopped hanging out at the station so much, so he didn’t know anything about him--was saying something as he and Talia took their seats. The councilwoman had graciously accepted his request to join him, just so he wouldn’t be completely alone in that room--though he was certain she was curious about everything, too. Everyone had their own reasons for doing things, that was for sure. 

The deputy repeated himself before finally looking up, impatience written on his face. Stiles gave him the cheekiest grin he could manage. 

“Hey. I’m Stiles Stilinski, resident deaf kid.” He almost laughed at the way Warner’s eyes widened in shock and the shameful flush that bloomed on his cheeks. “You’re gonna have to look at me when you say something.” 

“Name…” Warner scribbled something on the sheet before him. “Nature of the crime?” 

“Harassment.” At his hesitation to continue, Talia nudged him with her elbow. “And physical assault. Criminal threatening. Is being an absolute douchebag a felony? It should be.”  
“Name of the perpetrator?” 

Stiles looked at the mirror, just where he knew his dad would be standing on the other side. The few interrogations that he’d let Stiles watch with him, the man had stood in the right side of the room. He’d never said why: if that’s where he stood during training, or if there was some technique behind it--naturally, when Stiles was younger, he’d imagined there being some sort of advantage to standing there, but knowing his father, it was just habit. 

“Matt Daehler.” 

“Any details you would like to provide? Dates, times…” 

Stiles gave a wry chuckle, finally looking away from his reflection. “Do you have a voice recorder? This might take some time.” 

He started from the very beginning: that day in the library when Matt told him he’d gotten out of the juvenile detention centre and that he was making it his life’s mission to torment Stiles for the next sixty days. He very pointedly did not glance up at the mirror, unable to bear looking toward his dad in case he’d already made the connection, and, since he was good at his job, he probably had. 

Stiles talked about the multitude of times Matt had yanked him inside a restroom, just to remind him about his promise--the countless bruises on his ribs and sometimes abdomen and torso had since faded (from those encounters at least), but his skin and muscles still twinged at the memory. One in particular stood out to him. 

It had been relatively shortly after news about the fact that he and Derek were dating started running around the school--and subsequently the looks that juicy bit of gossip (from both girls and guys) garnered him. Stiles had just left Derek at his locker on his way to the morning classes he had without him, still reeling from the fact that Derek enjoyed kissing him hello and goodbye--and several in between--when he was forced into the boys’ restroom. 

Matt had postured for a couple of minutes. “Don’t think just because you’re trying to hide behind your big, strong jockhead boyfriend that I can’t still get to you. My sixty days aren’t up yet.” 

The moments immediately following that were still a blur to Stiles, but he knew they had left him clutching the door to a stall with one hand, the other arm wrapped around his tender abdomen, breath having been driven from him forcibly. 

“And just in case I wasn’t clear last time. I will kill everyone you love if you speak a word,” Daehler had said just before he’d left him there, but not without one last special gift for Stiles: kicking his feet out from under him so that he went sprawling to the ground. 

But the main focus of his narrative, so to speak, were the slightly more frightening attacks. Stiles described how Matt broke in--though he technically had no proof that it was him; Daehler had never referenced it, but who else would it be?--and tied him in his bed using saran wrap. He told Warner about how Matt had confronted him on the steps to his house after his date, knocked him unconscious with something metal and had then left him restrained as though on a crucifix to the flagpole at the school. He showed the deputy the pink scars from where his wrist had been cut open and spoke with gritted teeth about the slur that had been painted on his chest in his own blood. 

“And then last night, Matt came to my house and attacked me. I tried to defend myself, but he got the jump on me. I thought at first that it was just a random, unprovoked occurrence, but…” When he realised what he’d said, he trailed off and glanced at Talia, grimacing. 

“‘But...’? Do you know why Daehler attacked you last night?” Warner said, looking up from jotting down notes. 

“I’m pretty sure he must have overheard a conversation at the Hales’ house between Councilwoman Hale, Laura and Derek about how they were going to intervene on my behalf and talk to me. He assumed that meant I’d told them about what he was doing to me and freaked out.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Talia fidget infinitesimally in her chair. He wasn’t certain if she hadn’t made the connection before, or if being reminded about it was uncomfortable, but for either reason he hadn’t wanted to admit it. But it made the most sense. Stiles didn’t think anything else would have made Matt react so strongly and abruptly. 

Warner was nodding as he was scratching his pen across the paper. “And why was he at the Hales’?” he asked when he looked up again. 

“To see Laura. They started dating a couple weeks ago. I don’t know if it was because he was honestly interested in her…” 

“Or…” Warner prompted. 

“Or if it was another tactic to show that he could get to me anywhere,” Stiles said, shooting a furtive glance at Talia. 

He then proceeded to tell of the text message that he’d received--still saved on his phone--telling him pretty much the same thing. He detailed the time that Matt had been outside his window, leering at him. 

“And why did you not come forward the moment these encounters began?” There was no accusation in Warner’s facial expression. It was just a question to get all the details he could. 

_But, damn, the guy sure knows how to ask the rough questions._

He glanced at Talia before fishing out his phone. He opened the messages app as he said, “He threatened everyone I cared about if I said anything.” He selected the most recent thread from the unknown number, when Matt had thanked him for _playing along_ and handed it over to Warner. “He sent this after our double date. He threatened Laura directly, which is why…” 

Stiles turned to Talia, tears blurring his vision, pleading in his voice. “I figured it was--I mean, it was better me than her, right? That’s why--that’s--I kept it to myself. I didn’t want her to get hurt--he might--who knows what he would have done. I’m just glad it was me.” The last of his words came out in an almost inaudible whisper.

He closed his eyes as a lone tear tracked down his face, and he didn’t see the broken, sad expression from Talia. A few moments passed as he tried to compose himself before looking back at Warner, who had the same stoic expression on his face. 

“And your reason for stepping forward now?” 

Stiles bit his split lip--again, and cringed, again--and studiously ignored Talia’s presence next to him. He’d basically given his reason before, but it wasn’t explicitly stated as such, so he saw the logic behind asking the question. 

_Because I’m weak. Pathetic. Any number of things._

“Well, the cat’s out of the bag. He assumed I had talked, so I’m talking.” 

Warner nodded, as though that’s what he’d expected, and then gathered up the papers, tapping them on the table to straighten them. “Do you have anything else to add?” 

Stiles felt more than saw Talia looking at him. “I--uh--no. I think that’s it.” 

“Okay. Do you want to submit to photographing as evidence? If you do, that will give us what we need to bring in Daehler for questioning.” 

Stiles just nodded, having expected that, even though he still wasn’t fully prepared. Warner left to retrieve the station’s camera, he presumed. Stiles took that moment to turn to Talia, thinking that he would see disgust or anger on her face, for endangering her family--that’s how Stiles would have seen it, most likely, and he wouldn’t have blamed her.  
He definitely wasn’t ready for the small, sad smile that graced her features. She cupped his cheek gently with one hand, and Stiles’s breath hitched in his chest. It reminded him so much of what his mom did when he was younger--and even into his pre-teen years--especially when he had come home crying because how others had treated him. She had always said for him to never stop loving things the way he did, the way he got so fascinated with them and would run his mouth a mile a minute about them; she’d loved hearing him talk, she always said. 

Another tear escaped and he felt her thumb wipe it away. “Thank you, Stiles. For speaking up. It was a brave--and the right--thing to do. We were all worried about you.” Her words seemed to hold more weight behind them than just simply giving gratitude for reporting a crime, like she was thanking him for something else as well. “I’m sorry we didn’t see it sooner.” That, too, felt deeper--an expression of sorrow that made him feel guilty for her experiencing it. 

“Do you want me to stay for this? So you’re not alone?” She looked at the two-way mirror, knowing that technically his father would still be behind it, but unable to do anything until after the images were taken. 

Stiles nodded again, words stuck behind the lump in his throat. 

Eventually Warner returned, and Talia went to stand near the mirror, out of the way. Stiles stripped down to his boxers--there were a couple of bruises from last night where Matt had kicked at him--and shame burned through every molecule. The flash went off. Shame at being so unclothed in front of those two. Shame at having those marks on his body. Flash, flash. Shame at being so helpless that he couldn’t even defend himself. _Turn, flash, turn._ He hadn’t realised that he’d left the door unlocked after his dad took Preston to the train station, and Matt had slipped right in, completely unheard. Shame, shame, _shame…_

Suddenly he was in his dad’s arms, tears streaking down his cheeks. His dad was rubbing his hand down the back of Stiles’ head soothingly, the other clutched around his shoulders. Sobs were wracking through his body, breaths short and choked. Stiles vaguely wondered when the sheriff had entered the room, but then decided he didn't care and wrapped his arms just as tightly around the man. 

The tears slowly calmed down and he extricated himself from his dad. He was completely shocked to see that his dad had been crying, too! Stiles wanted to ask the universe if the guilt would ever stop, but he kept it to himself. 

His dad waited for him to put his jeans and shirt back on--Talia and Warner had both vacated the room--before asking, "He did this because of me, didn't he?" 

Stiles figured the way he looked down at the floor without responding would be answer enough, and by the tightening of his dad's hand on his shoulder, he was correct. 

"I may have jumped the gun a bit," the sheriff said, with the closest thing to sheepish written in his eyes. "When you said his name, I sent the on-duty patrol car to Daehler's house. His mother said he hadn't been home for a while." 

Stiles didn't react to the news at all. Since Matt thought he'd already talked, he must have assumed that meant his time was up and had fled to who-knew-where. But he was mildly surprised that his dad had taken action before he was technically allowed to do. 

"I'm sorry, son--" he began. 

"Dad, don't--" 

"No, Stiles, just--I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I've failed you, as a father, as your guardian. I should've seen!" His rough fingers brushed at a prominent bruise on Stiles' cheek, wiping away an errant tear. "I just wish you felt like you could come to me," he finished with a frown. 

"I couldn't!" Stiles protested, voice thick with emotion. "He threatened you--!" 

"Son, it is not--your--job--to protect me. I am the sheriff of this town, and, more than that, I am your father. You seem to have gotten our roles in this family mixed up, and I love you for it. But--and god forbid there be a next time--let me do my job?" 

Stiles could only nod, not trusting himself to coherently answer what his father was saying, but he honestly thought he wouldn't do things differently if anybody else intended harm to those he cared for in his life. He would always put them first, no matter the cost. 

His dad slung an arm around his shoulders after they left the room, and he had to contain a wince when it landed on a particularly large contusion. 

Stiles saw that Talia was handing in her visitor's badge that Shondra must have given her when he hadn't been paying attention. She gave him a small wave goodbye, but it looked as though her thoughts lay elsewhere, and she left the station as a woman on a mission. 

"You need to know that I will always be here for you, that it's okay to ask for help," his dad said, glancing down the hall at the councilwoman's retreating form. "And it looks like the Hales are all on your side, too." 

_Probably not so much after today,_ he said to himself. 

***************

School--and life in general--sucked following his report of what Daehler had done. People had one of two reactions when they looked at him and his beaten appearance: they either smirked, laughed or had some expression of mirth, or they gave him any variation of disgust. Not everyone was like that, of course. Lydia just looked at him calculatingly, sparing a glance for Derek who’d just walked past her. (Stiles had fleetingly thought about asking her for her concealer, but the damage was done after his initial return, so what would have been the point?) Jackson rolled his eyes. Danny had given him a sympathetic smile, of all things. But the majority of the school’s population was pretty awful. One girl actually came up to him to say she couldn’t believe what he’d dragged Derek into--apparently she hadn’t received the memo yet. 

Because Derek… Well, it was obvious things were over between them. He hadn’t gone so far as to move seats during their classes together, but everything else was completely different. He didn’t sign or say a word to Stiles in history or chemistry; he actually chose a different table during lunch; he was never at Stiles’ locker in the mornings or afternoons anymore, and the two times Stiles had tried to approach him at his locker, the guy had walked away. It could have been coincidental; Stiles wasn’t sure that Derek had seen him before moving away, but the Stilinski men didn’t believe much in coincidences. 

Derek hadn’t acted hostile at all. Stiles would give him that. But the continued silence--though he completely understood; he more than likely deserved it all and more--still hurt whenever he looked at Derek in class, and he was blatantly ignoring him. 

Stiles would never admit to falling asleep every night that week with tears shining on his cheeks. 

Laura and Cora he had expected not to see much of during the school day. He never had before. Laura was two grades above him, and Cora was a year younger or so. So it didn’t hurt as much when he didn’t hear from them--well, Laura, at least. Cora hadn’t said much since her sincere apology to the way she had acted that night after dinner. That wasn’t surprising either; who wanted to associate with a brother’s boyfriend--his heart thumped heavily at the use of the word--at her age? 

But Laura hadn’t even texted him. Not once. And he used to get at least one a day from her, usually some sort of self-portrait with a hilarious caption or a random thought of the day. His favourite had been, _Do you think the Huns called their girlfriends their Hunnies?_. He’d spat his soda everywhere, much to the dismay of Derek, who had been sat across from him looking at Stiles’ notecards over the Hundred Years’ War. 

It was finally the weekend, and Stiles was doing nothing other than lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His dad had even noticed his morose behaviour over the past week, commenting on his moping about and wondering why he was sitting in the living room watching a late night recorded game with him instead of out with Derek--or, more preferably, he said, safe within these walls with him just down the hall. 

Stiles had forced a smile, falling back to his default setting, and told him everything was good, fine, for the better, whatever that meant. The sheriff, he knew, couldn’t be directly involved with Stiles’ case, had taken on more duties at the station to relieve his deputies so that they could get on with the search for Matt. There had still been no trace of him in the last few days; apparently he’d learned a few new tricks at that detention facility. 

He hadn’t wanted to burden the man any further, not with that. That was something he honestly couldn’t help with, no matter how much he wanted. It was Stiles’ problem, and Stiles’ alone. And he’d get over it. He would. It would just take a little time. Or a lot. And maybe some chocolate. 

Stiles sighed, looking at the small box he’d put together that held all of the stuff he’d “borrowed” from Derek. Really, he just took them without asking because they intrigued him, and Derek had just given him that smile that was just for Stiles, knowing what he was doing the whole time. There were a few books from Derek’s collection that he’d never even heard of that had caught his eye. A couple CDs that he figured his dad would like, so he’d taken them to copy; who knew they’d have similar music tastes? He didn’t think too hard about that. The shirt he’d borrowed after spilling milk on himself. Some other odds and ends that just reminded him of Derek. 

He reached over to grab his phone and accidentally knocked over the box, spilling its contents to the floor. He just flopped over onto his back again, phone in hand, accepting what had happened because that was his life. Stiles pulled up Laura’s thread in his messages. He sent off a text asking if she’d be amenable to meeting up so he could give her Derek’s stuff. 

And then he waited. He tried to make different shapes from the popcorn texture on his ceiling, but all he kept seeing was Derek’s face smiling at him. Sometimes it was that look he’d given him the other day at the Hales’, the one filled with disgust and anger. Stiles quickly closed his eyes to try and banish the image from his mind when that happened.  
But it wasn’t long before his phone buzzed in his hand with a text.

_[Message from: Laura Hale]_  
 _What the hell are you talking about?_  
 _[Today, 14.03]_

He didn’t get a response to his elaboration, asking if it wasn’t the normal, clichéd thing to do to return an ex-boyfriend’s things post-break up? Stiles thought about seeing if Preston was up for a video chat--Preston was sure to know what to do--but knowing him, his suggestion would most likely be to burn the stuff and use sage to cleanse his house. He was quirky like that. 

Stiles flipped over, thinking about maybe getting up and making something to eat for the deputies outside. He’d rolled his eyes at his dad’s insistence that one of them be at the door and for them to do actual perimeter checks every so often. He held up his hand, tracing out patterns on the ceiling. Patterns that had nothing to do with Derek Hale’s face.  
He absently noted that the abrasions on his knuckles were healing nicely. Just pink skin where it had knitted together. He didn’t think any of them would scar, even the ones on his face. His bruises were another story. For the last couple days, they’d been mottled monstrosities, with varying shades of green and yellow. Yet another reason for the people at school to stare and laugh at him. They were nearly gone when he’d looked that morning though. 

Stiles' phone buzzed again. His app for the doorbell told him someone was frantically pressing the button. He told it to snap a photo, fully expecting to ignore whoever it was. He didn't exactly feel like dealing with people right then. 

When the image popped back up showing Derek Freaking Hale standing there, side-eying the deputy who was out of frame, Stiles nearly rolled off his bed.  
So. Apparently he wanted to do this in person. Stiles wondered if there was any limit to his sense of nobility--though he figured he should dock some points for his complete lack of communication for the past week. That wasn't exactly knight in shining armour behaviour. 

He grimaced at his reflection as he passed his mirror; he looked a complete mess. Derek would just have to deal with it. 

Stiles reached the door and tried to stop the trembling in his hands. It was fine. Everything was fine. He already knew it was over. Derek being there was just tying off the loose ends. 

He opened the door and saw the keys in Derek's hand. He glanced at the Camaro. The lights were off. "You could have kept it running." 

Derek opened his mouth and closed it with a confused frown. He looked as though he'd been about to say something else, but Stiles had thrown him for a loop. 

"Just a sec, and I'll go and get it." Stiles was going for aloof, carefree. He had no idea as to degree of his success. The way his insides were churning, it was probably incredibly low. 

"It?" Derek asked then looked at his keys and his car behind him. 

"Your stuff." 

"Stiles--"

Stiles turned on his heel, not really wanting to see what Derek had to say for himself. It was over and done with, as soon as Stiles handed him his things. 

A hand on his shoulder whirled him around, and Stiles only had half a second to see that he had stepped inside and closed the door before Derek's lips were on his. Stiles really wanted to melt into it, really wanted to respond in kind, to wrap his arms around Derek’s neck and just give into it. 

But instead he pushed Derek back. “What the hell?” 

Derek, at least, had the grace to look contrite. “I’m sorry. I just--we’re both complete morons.” 

Stiles shrugged off Derek’s hand. “Excuse me?” 

“Can we sit and talk?” 

“What’s there to talk about? You broke up with me. In the shittiest way, just so you know.” 

“Okay, look. I’m a huge idiot. I went about this the wrong way. We’re not breaking up. At least, I don’t want to; do you?” Derek asked, taking Stiles’ hands in his. 

Stiles looked up at, completely lost, not trusting the feelings of hope and burgeoning happiness that were swirling inside him. “I--no?” he said, with it coming out more as a question than a declaration. 

“I was a total ass to you, but if it helps, it was completely unintentional. I thought I was helping you, giving you the space that you needed. Mom came home and told me everything you said, and she ripped me a new one for treating you like I did at the house…” Derek squeezed his hand. “And, god, Stiles. I’m so sorry that I--I just got so angry at Daehler and I took it out on you without even thinking about it.” 

“You thought--I wanted space?” 

“Did I mention that I am a moron?” 

Stiles tried--and failed--to contain a smile. “Once or twice. It probably wouldn’t hurt to keep it in mind though.” 

Derek drew him in, pulling on his hands until he rested his forehead on Stiles’ and wrapped his arms around his waist. He pressed a gentle kiss to his lips before pulling back. “So we’re not breaking up?” 

Stiles grinned and tucked his face into Derek’s neck. “We’re not breaking up,” he breathed against the skin there. 

His grin grew as he got an idea. His lips moved on Derek’s skin, kissing along the length of his neck. Derek’s head fell back--Stiles felt a small groan vibrate underneath his skin--exposing more of his neck that he eagerly sank his teeth into. 

After a few moments of Stiles working on a bruise that deserved to be on display at the Louvre, Derek pushed him gently back. He didn’t seem irritated--more perplexed.  
“What are you doing?” 

Stiles gave him a mischievous grin. “Well, I think we should celebrate our post-non-break up. By having sex,” he added after a beat. “And this time, I think you should fuck me.” 

He left Derek standing there as his brain rebooted and headed for the stairs. He turned around once he was a few steps up and began unbuttoning his jeans. 

"You comin' or what, big guy?" 

Just like that, life seemed to come back to Derek, and he was racing up the stairs, brushing past Stiles in his haste. Stiles burst out laughing until Derek turned at the top to say, “Well, what are you waiting for?” 

Of course Stiles had to punch his arm for a quip like that. That was _his_ job, after all. 

Stiles laughed again at the pouting expression on Derek’s face as he rubbed at his shoulder. “Oh, you big baby. Get over yourself and kiss me already.” 

Derek rolled his eyes and followed Stiles into his room. “Well, when you put it that way…” He stopped in the act of closing the door. “What about the deputy outside?” 

“We’ll just have to make extra sure that we’re quiet, then, won’t we?” 

Derek stalked over to him, forcing Stiles to walk backward until his legs hit his bed. He would have fallen onto it had Derek not caught him. “My hero--” he began until Derek placed his hand over his mouth. 

Derek gave him a look and removed his hand only to move them to his waist and pull him flush against him. He tilted his head and moved his lips against Stiles’. Stiles sighed into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Derek again, before getting impatient and opening his mouth to invite Derek in, who happily obliged. 

His hands slipped underneath Stiles’ shirt, fingers scratching through the hair there, before he was tugging up and pulling the shirt off. Derek’s hands travelled up and down the skin he’d revealed, causing it to pebble wherever his fingertips grazed. 

Stiles wanted nothing more than to cover himself up, hide himself away from Derek’s eyes. He was pretty sure most of the bruises were gone--which weren’t the only reason he wanted to cower--but he felt completely vulnerable under Derek’s roaming hands and gaze. 

Derek’s hands finally rested on his neck and pulled him in for another deep kiss. His hands started working on Stiles’ fly, and all of a sudden, he was completely naked. Still standing right before Derek. 

Derek pulled back, one hand stroking Stiles to full hardness. “You’re beau--” 

Stiles flushed and looked away. “No, you don’t--” 

Derek cupped Stiles’ cheek, gently pulling him back to face him. “I do, because it’s true. You are beautiful. And I’m going to make it my life’s mission that one day you’ll believe me.” 

Then Derek’s tongue swept through Stiles’ mouth, a brush on canvas, searching for every nuance. The air whistled out of Stiles’ lungs when Derek dropped to his knees. 

“Oh, god, you don’t have to--” 

Derek licked a stripe up the underside of Stiles’ dick, and his knees wanted to give way. He backed off, looking up at Stiles and pumping a few times. “Oh, but I really, really want to.”

When Stiles saw Derek opening his own fly, and that he was already hard, already leaking, and when his cock was engulfed in warm, wet heat, his knees _did_ buckle. He sat heavily down onto the bed. He thought Derek laughed but his thoughts decided then was the appropriate time to take a vacation. His entire being was focused on the way Derek’s mouth was bobbing up and down his dick.

God, it felt so amazing, but he couldn’t help it when his brain did start working again and it went to a negative space. He felt dirty, and not because of what Derek was doing—because _that_ was absolutely mind-blowing. Pun intended? Didn’t matter. But he felt like what was happening was wrong because he realised they were right. They were right about him being filthy, and they were right about Derek being too good for him. 

Stiles slowly became aware of his building orgasm. “Derek...Derek… Oh, _god_ ,” he cried out when Derek hummed around him, sloppily circling around the head. But he didn’t back off. “Derek, I’m not gonna--last. Der--ek!” 

Derek took that as a prompt to take him as deep as he could, and then Stiles was coming down the back of his throat. “Oh, _my god_!” 

Stiles muscles turned to jelly, and his arms fell to his sides as he let out a long sigh. Derek came into view, wiping a finger along his jaw and sucking it into his mouth. 

“You really didn’t have to do that--any of it,” Stiles said weakly as Derek laid himself along his side. He vaguely--acutely--noticed that he was finally fully unclothed, and he was only slightly disappointed he’d had no hand in the matter. 

“But I’m really glad I did,” he said before kissing him. The fact that he could taste himself only added to it. “Aren’t you?” he asked when he ended the toe-curling kiss. 

Stiles could only nod dumbly as guilt rocketed through him at the acknowledgement. Even though it added to it all, the least he could do was make Derek feel good. He figured he regained enough feeling in his body to roll over and reach inside his nightstand to retrieve a condom and a bottle of lube. When he faced Derek again, he waggled his eyebrows suggestively and grinned.

Derek got the hint and took them from him, but he placed them to the side and pulled Stiles flush against him. He peppered kisses along Stiles’ jaw leading up to his lips, kissing the corners of his mouth first. Time passed as Derek kissed Stiles.

Derek was apparently content to just lie there and let his hand continue to roam, but impatience reared in Stiles again. He took Derek’s hand in his and coated his fingers in lube before spreading his legs and moving his wrist to circle Derek’s fingers around his hole.

His boyfriend groaned into the kiss as he got with the programme and took control of his own hand, gently pushing past the ring of muscle with his first finger. Stiles threw back his head. This wasn’t something exactly new to him, but it felt entirely different when somebody else was opening him up and stretching him out.

Stiles’ fingers were still loosely wrapped around Derek’s wrist, so he tightened his grip. “More,” he breathed. He didn’t think that Derek really needed to go as slow as he had with him; plus this was more about Derek than anything.

He rocked his hips, pushing himself onto Derek’s fingers, breathing through the hot flare of pain it brought. Moving again, he pushed on Derek’s wrist, pulling his fingers out, then reversed the actions to pull them back inside him. Stiles groaned at the burn, into Derek's lips. 

Finally, he felt he was ready, so he released Derek's wrist and turned onto his hands and knees, then leaning down and resting his head on his forearms. Stiles felt more than saw Derek still in the act of rising to his knees. 

"What are you doing?" Derek asked when he raised his head to look behind him. 

"I just felt like this might be better for--us," Stiles said, hoping the pause wasn't noticeable. In all honesty, he just didn't think he could bear to look at Derek as he was dirtying him. It would be too much. Their first time, he’d been too caught up in it all to think anything about it; now there was almost nothing else his thoughts were focussing on but that. 

Not a moment too soon, he felt a hand on his hip and the tip of Derek’s cock lined up to his ass. Stiles hiccoughed, thinking about how, on top of everything else, he couldn’t hear or even see any of the noises Derek would be making as he fucked into him. He figured it passed as a hiss as the head pushed through the muscles there. 

Stiles grunted as the air left his lungs when Derek went too fast and settled himself fully inside. A soothing hand rubbed up his neck, Derek folding himself over his back, and he kissed his skin somewhere between his shoulder blades. Stiles breathed a few times, in and out, trying to get used to Derek’s size. He’d never compared them before, but he thought that he was a bit longer than Derek, while Derek was thicker. And it made a difference, he realised as he groaned more in pain than anything when Derek began moving before he was really ready. 

Not that he blamed him. His muscles had involuntarily clenched around Derek, and he’d moved his hips to adapt. Pain flooded his system as Derek slid slowly out and back, sheathing himself inside Stiles. He tried to make his groan and grunts to sound more like moans or something passing as pleasure, but he wasn’t sure how convincing he was being. 

Stiles loved that he was doing this, that Derek was fucking in and out of him; he loved the tug, the push and pull, but at the same time, it was more painful than he’d been expecting. Tears stung at the corner of his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, grunting at a particularly hard snap of Derek’s hips. He was picking up his pace, his thrusts slapping against his ass faster and harder. Stiles tried meeting his hips, rocking his and canting them, but the burn was too much to handle. 

He sank a little further onto his forearms, taking deep breaths that were cut off with each thrust of Derek’s dick inside him. Time essentially lost all meaning as he gave himself to the pain and tears spilled over his cheeks and dampened the comforter beneath him. 

Who was he kidding? He couldn’t keep doing this to Derek. He was bad news for him, for everybody. Everybody thought so. His dad was overworked because of him. The station was working too much to try and find someone that didn’t really need to be found. Derek was being dragged into a mess that he didn’t deserve. 

Stiles came back to himself as Derek draped himself over his back; he could feel the sweat between their skin. Derek had stopped moving, and he could feel his ass clenching around Derek’s dick that was quickly shrinking. Derek placed another kiss at Stiles’ shoulder before slipping out of him and throwing the condom in a nearby bin.  
“--nap,” Derek said. 

Or Stiles thought he did. The tears that he tried to surreptitiously wipe away were making everything blurry. The fact that it was dark in his room with the curtains closed both helped and hindered things. It made it more difficult for him to see Derek, but that meant it also made it harder for Derek to see him. And he prayed to any listening gods that he wasn’t paying attention or thought that it was sweat dripping down his face. 

He hopped out of bed, cringing at the burning sensation that continued to send flashes searing through his nerves. Stiles grabbed his boxers, and tossed Derek’s to him, thinking he’d appreciate at least one article of clothing. Stiles definitely did as he quickly slipped them up his legs. 

“A nap sounds...good,” Stiles said, hoping against hope that his voice didn’t sound as choked up as he thought it felt. 

He crawled back onto the bed and let out a little gasp when Derek cupped his face with both hands and kissed him deeply. His thumbs rubbed little circles on the apples of his cheeks, and he considered briefly pulling back--though nearly one hundred per cent of him wanted to melt into Derek’s arms and his lips; the guy was amazing at it--but figured that would probably raise more flags than anything. 

Stiles felt the frown before he saw it when Derek pulled back at looked at the pad of one of his thumbs before squinting at his face. 

“Stiles… Are you crying?” 

“No, of course not.” A beat passed in which Stiles figured Derek was giving him one of his many different incredulous faces--yup, there it was. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll stop in a minute.” 

Even he wasn’t certain how true that was, but he guessed it was as good as it was going to get. 

“ _What’s wrong?_ ” Derek signed. “ _I am worried._ I don’t want you to stop--I mean, of course I do. But I also want to know why you’re upset.” He paused, considering and biting at his bottom lip. “Was it--was I--was it bad?” 

Stiles wanted very much to roll his eyes at that moment, but he didn’t think it would go over very well. Plus it would only be half-hearted at most. 

“Seriously, dude, I’m fine,” he said, a sniff and stray tear giving the lie to his words. 

“You need to start trusting me with things, before they blow up in our faces.” 

Stiles’ face crumpled, and he turned away, hugging his knees to his chest. “No, I need to end things with you.” 

There was a pause before movement rocked the bed slightly, and Stiles thought that might be the end. Derek was getting up and gathering his clothes and leaving, not arguing a word or putting up a fight, because he recognised it as necessary, too. 

But then there was a hand on his, prying it from its death grip on his knee, fingers lacing together. Stiles looked over at Derek, and the open, vulnerable expression on his face threatened to shatter his heart. He realised what Derek was doing: the guy was putting all his cards on the table, laying everything in Stiles’ hands. He had all the power here, Stiles did. He could make or break them depending on his next move. 

With a few words, he could destroy everything they had ever meant to each other, everything they’d been through, everything they’d survived together. Or… 

Or he could do what Derek had done and lay himself bare, put everything out there for Derek to judge. Maybe then he’d realise the truth and come to his senses. 

“I…” And it was like the dam broke and everything came pouring out, tears included. “I’m a really fucking awful person, Derek.” Only he was certain it came out a little more garbled than that. “Everybody knows it. I know it. Doesn’t it take an awful person to deserve the things that have happened to me? 

“And now I’m dragging you into it, another tally mark against my soul. You’re this beautiful, amazing thing, this pure soul that deserves everything good in this world. You’re the Prince Charming that my movies have been teaching me about since before I could talk. I’m the one waiting in the shadows, the one to be hidden away in the bell tower, the one who was changed because he couldn’t be loved.” 

Stiles risked another look at Derek and was completely floored by the tears he saw welling there in his eyes, spilling over when he blinked. 

“No, Stiles. No. You’ve got it all wrong,” Derek said, swallowing hard. “You’re this gorgeous, awesome creature who’s had the shittiest cards dealt to him, and you’re so strong. You make me want to be a better person, to be the kind of person that deserves someone like you. Who’s been telling you these awful things?”

Stiles wiped at his eyes again. “Me. Myself. And I. And Matt. And people at school.” He told Derek of a few times he’d seen other students talking about him, or when they’d specifically picked him out to tell him what they really thought about everything. 

“Oh, god, Stiles. Why didn’t you tell me? I want to be there for you,” he said, clutching Stiles’ hand in his. 

“Because I love you, you idiot!” Stiles said, blushing when he realised what he’d admitted. He looked away from Derek, away from the clasped hands. “I was trying to protect you--you above all else.” 

Stiles felt the mattress shift again, and he briefly wondered if he’d gone too far, before Derek’s lips were on his again. The kiss was so sweet it made his heart want to break all over again. 

“If it wasn’t obvious,” Derek said, pulling back from the kiss, “I love you, too.” His free hand formed the sign for _I love you_ and put it over Stiles’ chest. 

Stiles snorted, and pushed his hand away, even if he did think it was sweet. “Okay, you can stop being cute now.” 

He ignored the way his heart fluttered at knowing that Derek loved him, fully intent on savouring it later; he also blatantly ignored the guilt that surged through him at the thought of that being even worse for Derek, that he actually _loved_ Stiles--something he thought shouldn’t be possible.

“How about I stop when you stop?” Derek laughed when Stiles rolled his eyes. “And from now on, let’s focus less on trying to protect each other and more on trying to get through things together?” 

Stiles bit his lip, as though he was considering. “I’ll work on it. But no promises. At least not yet.” 

“And I’ll work on getting you to see yourself like I and everybody who loves you sees you.” Derek smiled, basically glowing with happiness. Was it Stiles that was doing that to him, making him that happy? It was impossible to believe. Though he ached with wanting it. 

“Do you want to talk about it? I mean, would it help?” At Stiles’ small shrug, he pressed on. “Why weren’t you with your dad and Preston?” 

Stiles laughed; it turned bitter at the end. “Wouldn’t you know it? Preston is completely against clichés. And what’s more cliché than saying goodbye at a train station? I told him it would probably be worse if it started raining as the train took off and left behind the other person standing there. He didn’t appreciate me one-upping him, but conceded that I was right.” 

Derek’s hand tightened on his, and he brought their hands up to plant a kiss on his knuckles, still pink from their ordeal. “I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through this. Is it fair of me to say that I want to kill the bastard?” 

Stiles snorted out a laugh. “Get in line. You’re, like, third or something.” His smile fell. “I’m sorry that I was pathetic and didn’t tell you--or anybody--sooner.” 

Derek pressed a finger to Stiles’ lips. “No, don’t ever think that. You did what you thought was right; you were trying to protect everyone around you. That’s not pathetic. Ever. But we need to make sure you realise there are people around you that love you so much and want to make sure you’re safe and protected, too. If those deputies outside are any indication anyway.” 

Stiles grinned against Derek’s finger and licked it. It was Derek’s turn to roll his eyes, but then he pulled him in for another searing kiss. 

Stiles sobered before saying, "I am sorry I didn't tell you before. It's hard for me. I've not had the best of luck in sharing and talking about things in my life..." 

Derek's lips tightened at the reminder of one of their first deeply intimate conversations, where Stiles had spoken of his childhood. 

“I love you,” Derek said again, causing Stiles’ flush to deepen from just his reaction to the kiss. “I like saying that. A lot. And have I mentioned how much of an idiot I am for treating you like I did that day?” 

Stiles placed a chaste kiss on Derek’s lips. “You’ll just have to make it up to me sometime,” he said with a grin and a wink. 

“I think I could be persuaded,” Derek replied, chasing Stiles’ mouth as he laughed and pulled back. “So should I go or…?” 

Stiles glanced at the time, then realised he didn’t really care. He figured that his dad would rather him be with Derek and happy than completely alone and miserable. He said as much to Derek. “Though maybe we should put on more clothes?” He nudged Derek in the ribs with his elbow. 

“And maybe some air freshener.” 

Stiles just laughed. 

**********************

Stiles woke up with an intense craving for peanut butter cups. Derek was sprawled out next to him, with one arm tucked under his head and the other laying across Stiles' chest. 

He'd be lying if he said the sight didn't tug at his heart in the best way. It had been an incredibly long time since he'd slept next to somebody, ever since he and Scott had stopped doing sleepovers. Even before that, they'd outgrown sharing a bed, crashing out in front of the television or on the floor.

Stiles stretched, groaning at the glorious pull on his muscles. He felt a lot better, physically and emotionally, than he had before they'd fallen asleep. They had lain there just talking for a while, about everything Stiles had endured--both of them had been brought to tears again--and about other things. 

Derek had traced his fingers along the lines of Stiles' face, something that his mother had done when he was a child to help him to sleep. He had been about to tell him that Derek was sending him off to dreamland when he realised that the fingers had stopped their motion. He'd opened his eyes to find that Derek had fallen into slumber. 

He'd be lying again if he said he hadn't whipped out his phone to snap a couple photos, grainy though they were in the faint light streaming in from outside. 

Stiles carefully moved Derek’s arm from his chest, grimacing when the other boy moved onto his side. He held in a sigh of relief when Derek seemed to fall back into deep sleep. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to make as little movement as necessary to heave himself off it. 

All the lights were off in the house, he noticed as he descended the stairs and went into the kitchen. The contrast to the bleak darkness that opening the fridge caused made Stiles squeeze his eyes shut in discomfort. He opened them again, squinting against the brilliance, and searched about, looking for something chocolatey. Of course, with his stance on his father’s health, he didn’t really expect to find anything. That didn’t help the fact that he was highly disappointed in coming up empty. 

As a last ditch effort, he looked in the vegetable drawer, knowing that neither one of them ever really put stuff in there--but maybe his dad had a stash of goodies there because neither of them used it. Stiles wouldn’t put it past the man. 

_Are those…?_ Astonishment flashed across his face as he pulled out the keys to his Jeep. Had they been there the whole time? Excitement trilled through him at the possibility of driving again. 

He closed the refrigerator door and was faced with a note that he hadn’t seen before. Stiles instantly recognised his father’s scrawl. (“It’s not chicken scratch, Stiles! That is the handwriting of a public official; show it some respect!”) 

_I only came back to get some real food. We might have a couple leads. I’ll let you know how they pan out. And when I see you next, you’ll explain to me why there was a boy other than you in your bed._

He laughed--albeit a bit nervously--as he raced up the stairs to grab his wallet. He saw Derek sleeping there, and his face held an expression of pure contentment, so he shot down the idea of bringing him into the conspiracy. He’d have to share in the delight of riding in Roscoe some other time. Stiles was going to be gone for a total of a few minutes anyway, just down to the nearest gas station and back. 

It wasn’t until he was at the front door, hand on the deadbolt, when he was presented with his next issue. The deputies outside. Stiles peeked outside from the window, but he couldn’t see anything--it was the wrong angle. The squad car was still outside, but it was too dark to make anything out. 

He took a deep breath and decided to just go for it. He could blow it off as wanting to see how they were doing if nothing else. So Stiles slowly opened the door after sliding the lock back and popped his head out. He almost snorted when he saw that the deputy was fast asleep, mouth open--probably snoring. 

Stiles wondered if he should wake the man up, but then his fingers brushed his keys in his pocket. He figured it didn’t matter since Derek was there with him, so he slowly walked outside and shut the door as carefully as he could. Coming closer to the driveway, he could see into the car across the street. The other deputy was in a similar state. Cream of the crop, apparently. Though, thinking back on it, he realised they hadn’t had a shift change. Stiles guessed that it was because the sheriff had others working on those leads he’d mentioned--Stiles wouldn’t get his hopes up--and hadn’t had the time to send a fresh set. 

He hopped into the Jeep and put the keys in the ignition, but he didn’t start it. Stiles put Roscoe in neutral and let it slowly back down the drive. The momentum down that incline let him reverse onto the street a little ways until he came to a stop and let off the brakes slightly. 

Stiles waited until he was a good distance away from his house before gunning the ignition and starting up the Jeep. He almost hooted in victory, but decided that might be better done when he’d successfully returned without getting caught. 

_It must say a lot about me that I’m sneaking off for a chocolate fix…_

Finally Stiles arrived at the gas station. He was about to cut the engine and start singing his Reese’s song when movement caught his eye. A figure was hovering near the dumpster to the side of the building. Stiles didn’t think twice about it until an SUV pulled into the station, coming to a stop near the large rubbish bin. The dark silhouette of a person passed under one of the building’s lights. Alarm and fear flooded his veins. 

It was Matt! 

Stiles sat there, stock still, completely dumbfounded. He couldn’t believe it. His first time out by himself and he was the one to find Daehler. He reached for his phone and his heart fell through to his feet as he realised he’d left it on the nightstand. 

Thinking fast, he knew the best thing to do would be to run inside the gas station and ask the attendant to use their phone, that there was a wanted fugitive right out there. But the SUV was beginning to drive off! He’d seen Matt get into the passenger seat from his rearview mirror. 

Calling it into the department would do no good. Both Matt and the driver would be long gone before any sort of unit could be sent there or any roadblocks set up. So he did the next best thing. He cut his headlamps and put Roscoe into gear. 

He was going to follow them. 

********************

Stiles jumped out of the Jeep, but left the door open. He always laughed when people in the movies always slammed their doors closed when on a stakeout or something. As though the people they were following didn’t have ears. 

Carefully following them, heart pounding the entire time, had brought him to the industrial district of Beacon Hills. Warehouses of all sizes had been passed, and he was parked a few hundred metres away from one that looked completely abandoned. Though, at that time of night, they all looked creepy and empty; but the one that he’d seen the SUV pull up to and Matt and the unknown driver had entered had broken windows and a door that hung on its hinges. 

Stiles had driven down a small alleyway some distance from the warehouse and waited a few minutes. He knew what he _should_ do at that point, but curiosity was eating at him. Was he at Matt’s hideaway? Were they only there for a short time before they left to find somewhere new? Why were they there at all? And who was the driver? Something niggled at his thoughts, but he couldn’t say what it was. 

He figured that it would be best for him to get as much information as possible, but he could hear his dad’s voice nagging at him already. Stiles found it strangely pleasing that he also heard Derek speaking at him angrily, facial expression oddly resembling that of an angry wolf. 

Crouching low, he approached the building, trying to keep an eye on the ground for stray stones or puddles--it had rained earlier--and one on the door. It was more difficult to do than he’d ever seen in any TV show. Stiles reached one of the broken windows at the front of the warehouse. He slowly lifted his head to try and peer inside. 

He was met with a wall opposite him. Apparently the doorway led into a corridor that veered off into the warehouse proper. That might be a benefit to him or an insurmountable problem. 

_There’s only one way to find out._

Entering the warehouse, he realised immediately that whomever had built the thing had decided to put the administrative aspect at that end. He found himself facing a warren of hallways and small offices, most of which had broken or completely missing doors. Debris and scattered branches and leaves littered the hallways, with water stains marking the walls, evidence of the long-standing abandonment. 

Stiles had no idea where to go next, or if turning the corner down one of the corridors would put him face-to-face with his assailant and his driver. The hallway he was in looked like a main thoroughfare, with a bunch of tributaries branching off in different directions. He vaguely wondered how much space was left for the actual housing of wares if there was that much taken up by administration. Maybe that’s why it was abandoned. 

He took a step toward where the corridor punctured deeper into the warehouse when a flash of light had him clutching at nothing in the air. Stiles all but threw himself into an office nearby and waited, blood rushing in his head. 

A few moments passed before Stiles peeked his out into the hallway again. The light was fainter, as though it was moving away. He inched his way closer to the corner--a compact mirror would be handy right then. Looking around it, he saw that the light was coming through the windows on the double doors at the end of the corridor, doors that he guessed opened into the actual warehouse. 

Bending himself almost in two, he half walked, half crawled toward the doors. The windows were grimy, covered in filth, and wiping at it only seemed to worsen the situation. He’d have to make do; he didn’t trust that opening those doors would go unnoticed. 

Standing up slowly, Stiles looked through the windows and was immediately grateful that he’d decided not to try opening them. Matt was right there at a table not far from the doors. A lantern was set on the table, giving off the yellow light he’d been drawn to, like one used for camping. Stiles noticed that two other people were at the table with Daehler. 

A woman and Peter Hale, Derek’s uncle! He still didn’t know who the woman was, but he was instantly reminded of the other times he’d seen them together. First was weeks ago, when he’d seen Matt get into that same SUV with Peter driving and the woman in the passenger seat after Daehler had assaulted him in the restroom. And then just Friday after school, he’d had strange encounters with both Peter and the woman. 

It had been right after his last class, and Stiles had gone to talk to Harris about his missing classes and if there was anything the gracious man would allow him to do to try and make up--emphasis on the mental sarcasm. 

After a thorough, condescending and rather malevolent talking to from Harris, Stiles had bumped into the woman just outside the door to his classroom. She’d then pinched both of his cheeks, like she was his middle-aged aunt, and told him that a cute, little thing like him should probably watch where he was going. He was taller than her! He’d murmured some sort of apology, thrown off by her rather intimate gesture and closeness to him--she’d been practically breathing down his neck through the whole thing--and she’d sashayed into Harris’ classroom. She had even closed the door in his face, waving to and winking at him through the small window. 

Stiles had almost immediately put it out of his mind, aside from the general discomfort that felt like it was crawling under his skin. He had walked outside, wondering which deputy got the honour of driving him home that day--so far none of them had let him sit up front with him. They’d either been told or had personal experiences with him that he loved to mess with all of the gadgets from the passenger seat. 

He’d seen the patrol car toward the back of the parking lot and had been passing between a silver sedan and that black SUV when the driver’s side door opened and bumped into him. Quite a bit more forcibly than running into that woman had been, but not enough to cause any damage. Not that he’d needed anymore.  
Peter Hale had stepped out of the SUV, all calm and collected, as though he hadn’t just hit Stiles with his door. He’d apologised, though, and said he hadn’t seen him there. Stiles had said it was nothing, of course, and then had tried to brush past him, but Peter had caught his arm. 

Peter had asked him where Derek was, and Stiles hadn’t really felt like feeding an excuse to anybody else--let alone somebody who could easily verify it if he’d wanted--so he’d told Peter the truth: that he and Derek were no longer together. Instead of sharing condolences or any other false pretences, Peter had given him a lingering once over and wondered aloud at how Derek could let such a fine young man exist without him on his arm. 

The way he’d said _fine young man_ had Stiles shivering at the implications just from the memory. Shortly after that, Stiles had been let go, and he’d quickly made his way to the deputy waiting in the car. 

Now they were all three together again, in an abandoned warehouse, after Matt Daehler had a warrant out for his arrest. They were mainly facing his way, though not looking at the doors, which gave him a chance to try and suss out what they were doing together. 

“--meet here--dirty warehouse,” the woman was saying. He could only read a few words, since they kept moving their heads and looking away or at something on the table. 

“--or leave, Kate,” Peter said to her, much to her displeasure if the look she gave him was anything to go by. 

So he had first names of all three now, at least. 

“--what you need?” Peter asked, apparently to Kate, who nodded before sliding her hands down the curves of her torso and waist. 

“He folded--bad hand,” she said. 

_Oh god. I’m in a movie and these three are the villainous masterminds and their terrible quips._

“And you,” Peter rounded on Matt, who flinched from his place, fiddling with the lantern. “--fucked up--arrest warrant!” Peter’s expression was simmering anger, but the undercurrent said that it was about to boil over any time. 

“--worry--told the bitch--out of the palm of my hand,” Matt said, gesturing. “--seeing her tomorrow night.” 

“That’s--niece--talking about,” Peter said. “But--good--move up--plans. The whole family--there tomorrow night. Headline--tragic fire--Hales all dead.” 

Stiles nearly fell over. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together and know that Matt was talking about Laura. Apparently he’d been in contact with her since the whole debacle on Monday and had at least convinced her to let him say his piece. 

Stiles couldn’t believe it. Peter Hale was planning on killing the entire Hale family in one fell swoop, using that Kate woman--who’d gotten what she needed--and Daehler in some capacity. But why? Which totally wasn’t important right then; he needed to get back and warn Derek! 

In his haste to leave, he didn’t notice that his foot kicked the door with a loud thump. He didn’t notice all three of them look up instantly toward the doors. He didn’t notice Matt ask, “Was that…?” and Peter respond with, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” in a cold voice. 

*************

Stiles’ Jeep careened into the driveway. He absently noted the way the deputy at the door jerked awake as he basically flung himself at the door. 

Stiles crashed up the stairs, yelling Derek’s name as he went. He fell into the other guy, who was hurriedly pulling on his jeans, in the doorway to his room. 

“What? What? Is your dad on his way home?” he asked, frantic expression on his face. 

Stiles didn’t have the heart--or the breath--to tell him that ship had already sailed. 

“Saw--uncle--warehouse--plan,” he huffed out, clutching at his sides. “Murder!” 

“What? Stiles, what about my uncle and warehouses? Did you say murder?” Derek looked completely lost and bedraggled. “Calm down. Breathe and start over.” 

Stiles tried to catch his breath, but his anxiety wasn’t helping. “I just saw--followed really--Matt Daehler and--” 

“You saw him? Let’s go tell the deputies outside!” Derek interjected. 

“Wait! This is more important,” Stiles said, catching Derek by the arm on his way out the door. 

“More important than finding the guy who tried to beat you to death?” 

“I followed Matt and your uncle who picked him up at the gas station to a warehouse. They met this woman named Kate there. They have a plan to kill your entire family in a house fire! Tomorrow night!” Stiles said, voice raising an octave in fear. 

“What?” Derek asked, incredulity written across his face. “That’s insane. Peter would never interact with a guy like Matt, much less go to an abandoned warehouse.” 

“No, listen! I saw them. I saw what they said. They said they had to move up their plans; Matt’s been talking to Laura, and he’s persuaded her to listen to him.” 

“Okay, there’s no way. Laura would never, not after what happened to you. And Peter is my uncle. He used to play catch with me, and took me to baseball games when I got older. He’s my uncle!” Derek ran his fingers through his bedhead. “I can’t--there’s no way.” 

“Derek, I wouldn’t lie about this,” Stiles pleaded. “You have to believe me. I was there--” 

“No! God, don’t you ever just shut up!” Derek shouted, fists clenching at his side. 

Stiles flinched at Derek’s words, jaw forcibly shutting, and at the fists he formed. 

Derek seemed to realise what he’d said, and his face blanched, the muscles in his jaw contracting. But he didn’t apologise. He didn’t say anything as he finished buttoning his fly and slipped on his shoes. 

“I--” Derek stopped in the doorway to look behind him, but not directly at Stiles. “I’m just gonna go. I--” 

He didn’t finish his thought before he left Stiles there in his room. 

Stiles tried to inhale, but his breath caught in his throat, and tears fell from his eyes. He didn’t feel them. He couldn’t feel anything. His body was insensate. Thoughts stopped. He fell back onto his bed, eyes unseeing. 

Derek didn’t believe him. 

Derek left him. 

Derek wanted him to shut up. 

Derek left… 

He wasn’t sure how long he’d lain there senselessly before the flashing light on his phone caught his attention from its place on the nightstand. He should get to the sheriff’s station and tell his dad what he knew. The sheriff would be able to handle it. It was obvious he couldn’t. 

Stiles grabbed his phone, and the message it displayed on the screen made rational thought flee his mind.

_[Message from: Derek Hale]_  
 _I’m sorry. We need to talk. Meet me at the school. Please._  
 _[Today, 03.47]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you think? Did you see that coming? Be sure to let me know, here or on my [tumblr](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com), where I love, love, love to talk about anything! 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and now we're finally on the upswing for the action arc of _Silence is Loudest_!
> 
> And be sure to hit up my ask box or comment here with suggestions for Derek's apologies! I'll pick a few to write in!


	14. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which things burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Innumerable apologies for how long this has taken. Now that I'm back, the last two chapters should come more quickly! 
> 
> A brief thank you to [leviathanlost](http://www.leviathanlost.tumblr.com), and without further ado, I present Chapter 14!

Stiles' hands shook as he read and re-read the message. He'd never thought he would hear from Derek again. It had been--what? A few hours? He still wasn't sure how long he'd been lying listlessly on his bed, staring at nothing, seeing nothing.

Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he tried to still their trembling with force of will alone, his mind racing with all sorts of possibilities. Okay, he could do this. Couldn't he? Derek wanted to meet him at the school--that was a little weird wasn't it? Why wouldn't he just come back to Stiles' house? 

Stiles shook his head. It didn't matter. Derek wanted to see him, and Stiles would take that. Maybe he just wanted a neutral place to meet, and the school was the first destination that came to mind. Fact of the matter remained that Derek still wanted to see him, and Stiles wouldn't question it--externally, at least. Or not at first, anyway.

Hell, this might be the last time that Stiles would ever see Derek outside of school anyway--though they were meeting at the school, but it didn't count.

_Fuck!_ Stiles realised that at some point, he'd risen from the bed and started pacing. He sat down heavily and took a deep breath. His thoughts were a whirlwind, circling around betrayal, hurt, hope, and a simmering anger.

Okay. He could do this. He'd already acknowledged that, but it didn't hurt to do it again, did it? He needed a plan. Without realising, Stiles had resumed pacing, mind blurring through possibilities. He needed to sneak out, to somehow get passed the deputies stationed outside who were surely awake and alert after he'd come roaring into the drive with his Jeep. But how?

A small smile graced Stiles' face as an idea came to mind. He stopped before his desk and popped open the spring loaded false bottom he'd put into one of the drawers. He'd found a how-to on the internet and had had a couple hours to himself one day, so why not? The only thing he'd really kept in there as contraband was chocolate, but his stash had long since run out. Well, chocolate and one other thing. Stooping, he slipped the lock picking kit inside his shoe. Stiles had no idea if he'd need it, but who knows what might happen?

His thoughts settled as he rose to his feet, grabbing his keys and phone. Stiles was certain that Derek just wanted to say his final goodbye, and that would be that. And after, Stiles would get a hold of his dad and try to explain what was going on with Peter, and hopefully they would get to the bottom of it once and for all.

Stiles breathed in deeply, something in his chest settling as he'd finally come to a decision and a plan. He glanced out his window, and with the light cast by the nearby streetlight, he could see movement in the squad car. Out the back it would be.

Treading softly down the stairs, he avoided creaky spots in his flooring, cursing silently into the darkness the antiquity of his home. To Stiles it felt like he took five minutes as he slowly closed the back door, but he had to be as careful as he could. Eyes trained on the ground—it would be just his luck that a stray twig would be his downfall—he made his way toward the shed that was a largely ignored part of the Stilinski household. Neither of them had green thumbs, and the only yard work they invested in was mowing every couple of weeks during the summer months, so the only items the shed contained was a dirty, old mower, a jerry can, and…

Yes! The sheriff hadn't donated Stiles' old bike like he'd threatened due to its complete lack of use. His eyes briefly looked over the bicycle, nothing but a bit of rust on the chain, but it would have to do. He picked the thing up and carried it outside as quickly as he could. This was the one time that Stiles was grateful his dad had never let him get a dog; they'd never had to fence in their yard. So he rushed, sort of, through the small copse of trees that separated his house from the empty lot and street behind them.

Stiles climbed on top of the bike, trying not to think of how much he was going to feel all that in the morning, and grumbled to himself as he pedalled toward the high school.

His phone buzzed as he leant the bike against the wall of the building, his breath coming in huffs. The old adage remained true: he'd remembered how to ride a bicycle. What he'd forgotten was how bloody difficult it would be after not doing it since middle school.

Fishing the mobile from his pocket, his heart thudded painfully at the new message from Derek. "Room 103," he read aloud. Why the hell did Derek want to meet in the science hall? Of course, Stiles would also like the answer to why Derek wanted to meet at the school in the first place. That room number felt familiar, Stiles realised as he tried the door and found it locked. But he'd long since forgotten whose room was what number in lieu of just showing up at the right time at the right place.

He made quick work of the lock and slipped inside, heart still pounding. Stiles was trying not to think about how this was The End--capitals included and emphasised. He made his way toward the room, feeling lightheaded as his blood pressure rose higher and higher the closer he got to the destination. 

Stiles felt a jolt go through him when he finally recognised the room he was heading towards—Harris’. If he were a dog, Stiles mused, this would be the moment he felt his hackles rising. Something felt very wrong. What if something had happened to Derek? 

That spurred him into action. Stiles stumbled into a run down the hallway and careened into the classroom. Taking one step into the room, barely lit by the after-hours security light outside in the corridor, he slipped on something and crashed to the ground in a sprawl. His breath knocked out of him, Stiles lay there for a moment, lamenting the fact that this was his life.

"Derek?" he whispered softly into the dark room. 

His hand scrabbled to find purchase and push him up, but it instead touched something wet and warmer than the tile that made contact with his skin. He pulled his hand back closer to his face. Whatever it was, it was dark and tacky.

Then the smell hit him. There was no other smell like it in the world, and Stiles had become rather intimate with it recently. It was something he never wanted to see or smell ever again.

Blood.

He scrambled to his knees. It was blood. His hand was covered in blood. And it wasn't his.

”Oh, my god."

Stiles looked wildly around the room, eyes wide. He prayed to every deity there was that it wasn't Derek. Vision slowly acclimating to the dark room with the sparse lighting, he took in the volume of blood that spread along the floor.

He held his breath as he followed the puddle to its source, fearing the worst. Even his heart stopped when his eyes rested on a prone, still body a few metres away from him. It looked male, but face down, he couldn't make out any details.

"Oh, god. Oh, god!"

Stiles moved closer to the body, his own trembling out of control. He reached out shaking hands and turned him over. He couldn't contain the sob that escaped, a mixture of pure relief and shock at who he saw lying there.

Adrian Harris.

He quickly noted three gunshot wounds to his torso, and since he'd been lying face down, he’d most likely been shot in the back. The bullet holes were still weeping, adding to the dark red sweeping across the floor. The killer must have just left.

It all came crashing down on him then. He was kneeling on the floor next to a dead body, the dead body of one of his teachers, hands and jeans covered in the man’s blood. Stiles scrambled back, hands flinging out, trying to find some part of the ground that didn’t have a pool of blood.

Stiles’ hand brushed something cold and hard. His fingers felt their way around it before he gasped, realising what it was.

_A gun!_

Then the room exploded into light and action. Torches were flashed into his face, blinding him, shapes moved all around him. Suddenly he was forced onto the ground. He could feel blood soaking into his clothes.

Hands--and knees--were pressing him into the floor, making it difficult to get a breath into his lungs. Cold metal encircled his wrists. With a jolt it clicked what was happening.

These were deputies from the station and he was being arrested.

His dad was going to kill him…

Stiles was lifted roughly to his feet by the neck of his shirt. He glanced around him and saw deputies, some with guns drawn--his blood pressure shot through the roof--surrounding him. One guy’s mouth was moving; he didn’t recognise the officer, but his faculties weren’t completely present.

“Listen. I’m sure you’re reading me my rights, and this is the only thing I’m going to say. I’m completely deaf and I have no idea what’s going on.”

The deputy who had been reading him his Miranda rights abruptly stopped, then jerked his head toward the door. Hands grabbed at the back of his neck and his arms, and he was shoved forward. Gentle didn’t come to mind when thinking about his treatment thus far.

Stiles was frogmarched outside. It seemed like the entire squadron of deputy vehicles was at the school, lights flashing, casting weird shadows against the walls of the school. The back door of a squad car was opened, and he was placed inside, the hand on the back of his neck shoving just a little passed too rough to make sure it was out of the way of the roof of the car.

Once the door was slammed shut, he looked outside to see the face of Deputy Michaels leering back at him. Michaels had had it out for him ever since he’d told his dad that instead of patrolling like he was meant to, Michaels could be found at the local coffee house flirting with the barista--who, by the way, definitely didn’t want Michaels flirting with her.

This was the best night of his life, hands down. That was when he saw the news van pulling up and an officer walking toward it. More than likely, they were going to give a statement right away. It had been a teacher who was murdered. That was a high profile case, considering it was Beacon Hills. From the stories his dad had told him, they liked to get control of what the media knew and what they didn’t right away.

Once the cameraman hopped out, large machine strapped to his shoulder, he ducked his head as best he could. Stiles had no idea whether they’d release his name, especially considering his minor status, but he definitely didn’t want his face all over the news if he could help it.

Boy, when he was wrong, he was wrong. It didn’t seem like any precautions had been necessary; by the time he was taken into the station, his school picture was plastered on every available TV screen and several computer monitors for the early morning news.

Deputy Michaels sneered at him, shoving him into a holding cell.

“Just sit pretty, princess. We can’t question you without a child advocate or guardian present, so looks like you’re stuck here for a while. They’re trying to get word to the only one in town--apparently she’s on vacation.”

Michaels turned around to walk away, smirk on his ugly mug. Stiles called out to him.

“Hey! Wait! Where’s my dad? He’s gonna want to know what’s going on.”

“Don’t worry, cupcake. Stilinski’s being informed. But he’s on a call on the other side of town, and it might take him a while to get back.”

That all seemed incredibly convenient. The whole thing seemed fishy, in fact. The deputies bursting in the room at the exact moment Stiles was there, touching a gun. That his dad was on the other side of the town… If anyone were to go dirty, it would be Michaels. There was really only one way to figure it out.

“Deputy Michaels, if I were to tell you of a murder plot, you’d be obligated to check it out, right?”

Michaels heaved a sigh. “What are you blabbering on about?”

“Peter Hale is planning on murdering his entire family. You need to bring him into custody!”

The deputy scoffed. “You’re just trying to make a scene because the little shit you actually are finally came to light. But I’ll look into it. Now sit down and shut up. We’ve got work to do.”

And so Stiles sat down. For a good five minutes. At least. Then he was up and pacing. And pacing. He was sure there was a traceable line where he’d paced by then. He couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. Derek--and his whole family--was in trouble! He had to do something.

But hadn’t he done everything he could? They weren’t allowing him contact with his father--again, something was wrong there--and he’d told the only onhand officer. Nobody else had come to see him. He was sure the entire town knew about his arrest, which meant that the Hales knew. Even when it was proven he wasn’t guilty, Stiles knew he’d be even more of an outcast. Not that any of this mattered…

He needed to get out. At midday, after interminable hours stuck in that cell, Michaels had brought him a meagre meal and he hadn’t seen him since. It had to be getting close to end of shift. Dark was falling upon the town, from what he could tell through his barred and bolted window high up on the wall.

Stiles’ dad still hadn’t returned, and that made him wonder if he’d ever been told of Stiles’ arrest. And even if he hadn’t, he should have heard about it by now, either on the radio or the television. So that means he’s really on a call--or worse, incapacitated in some way.

Oh, god.

He had to get out of there--he had to leave--he had to--

Michaels appeared in front of the barred door to the cell, a grin on his face. “I don’t know what you thought you might achieve, but Peter Hale is out of town. His assistant--for whatever white collar job he has--sent over plane tickets. He left some time today. Have fun with another night here, kid.”

“Wait! What are you holding me on?” Stiles asked, grabbing onto the bars of his cell.

“What, you didn’t hear? Oh, bad choice of words.” Even without Michaels’ leer, Stiles would have seen the malice behind the man’s words. “We’ve got your fingerprints all over the murder weapon; we’ve got the victim’s blood all over you.”

Stiles knew he should keep his mouth shut. That nothing should be said without legal presence. But he couldn’t help himself. “That’s all circumstantial!”

Michaels’ grin grew. “And the best part is that we’ve got an incriminating email from you to the victim just hours before his murder.”

He nearly blurted that he’d never sent Harris an email in his life, but instead he gritted his teeth and remained silent. Talking to Michaels was getting him nowhere.

The deputy walked away and an idea struck him. If Michaels was leaving, then it was change of shift, and the new shift would be leaving for patrol. It was his chance. They never performed a full search on him, and he still had his pick set in his shoe.

He stuck his head against the bars and watched down the hall for any movement. Then he took a deep breath and set to work, pulling his lockpick from his shoe.

Soon enough the door was swinging open--silently he hoped. His heart was pounding in his chest, so hard he thought it would serve as an alarm itself, and deputies were about to descend upon him any moment.

Stiles made his way to the station proper, peering around the corner of the hallway that led to the holding cells. He didn't see anyone moving about, so he cautiously crept toward the front doors. He was incredibly grateful--at that moment at least--that they’d taken his shirts as evidence, since walking around with giant bloodstains on his clothing probably wouldn’t be the most inconspicuous he’d ever been.

He couldn't believe his luck as he moved to the front. The coast was completely clear!

Then a hand grasped his shoulder. Stiles swallowed the scream that tore its way up his throat. He spun around to find Shondra looking at him with wide eyes.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever get his heart rate or blood pressure to stable levels again.

“Are they letting you go?” Whatever was on his face was apparently answer enough. “Oh, Stiles… What are you doing? I can’t--”

Stiles took her hands in his. “Shondra, listen. You know me. You know this--I wouldn’t do this. And you also know I wouldn’t cause this much trouble without a reason.” He bit his lip to try and stop the tears that threatened at the corners of his eyes. “If I don’t go--if you don’t let me go--right now--people I love will die!”

For the longest time, Shondra just looked at him, her eyes searching for something in his own, his face...somewhere. He didn’t know what. Then she let go of his hands, and he thought it was all over. Stiles couldn’t blame her; letting a minor out of custody should be out of the question.

But then she slowly reached into her purse and pulled out her keys. “I assume you need wheels to get wherever you’re going.” She held up a hand to forestall him speaking. “The less I know the better. And you found these on the ground.”

Shondra placed the keyring into his palm. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. It’s all well and good to play the hero, but sometimes you also need to look out for yourself. Or someone to do it for you.”

Then she surprised him even further by handing him her phone, telling him he might need it. Stiles pecked her on the cheek and then rushed out the door. He couldn’t waste any more time.

Stiles hopped in Shondra’s sedan and peeled out of the lot of the sheriff’s station, dialling a number he knew by heart. Putting the phone on speaker, he saw that it connected after only a few seconds, so he hoped to god it was a live person on the other end and not voicemail.

“Scott? It’s Stiles. I really hope it’s Scott. I know we’ve had our...differences lately, but I need you to forget about me and just listen. I need you to call 911 and have them send everybody who’s available to the Hales’. Immediately. Everyone. Fire, EMTs, deputies. Please, Scott. Please.”

He hung up and tore through the back roads of Beacon Hills, hoping against hope that he got there in time and that his call went through to the right person--and that Scott didn’t think he was joking. And he really hoped that he wasn’t pushing his luck with all this hoping.

Stiles finally pulled up the Hales’ drive, jerking the sedan to a halt. He saw flames licking at the windows, the eerie yellow glow casting light over the front garden.

Stiles was too late. He was too late…

_“No!”_ The cry ripped from his throat, startling himself in its ferocity.

This couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let it!

He tried to wrench himself from the car, but the seat belt yanked him back. Scrambling to unlatch it, he frantically looked around the yard for something that he could use--anything!

Finally free from the confines of the godforsaken sedan, his gaze settled on a birdbath toward the far edge of the front porch. Running to it, he tore off his shirt, and began ripping it into smaller strips. He shoved them all into the water of the bath, which was absolutely disgusting, but would help in the long run.

Tying one of the strips around his face, over his nose and mouth, Stiles turned to face the house. Had the flames gotten bigger? He could see fire engulfing at least one curtain completely. Was he really about to do this? To run into a burning building?

But he had to.

Hand gripping the other strips of soaked cotton, Stiles approached the front door. Touching it, he felt that it wasn’t extremely hot, so he carefully pushed it open.

Instantly the heat and smoke threatened to overwhelm him. Coughing, he bent to nearly a right angle. The path to the stairs that led to all of the bedrooms was clear, but he could see flames eating at the ceilings of adjoining rooms.

Stiles nearly started calling out to the family members, but then realised it wasn’t a good idea. He wouldn’t be able to hear their responses, and it would be a waste of oxygen in a space where it was already being consumed quickly.

And if the Hales weren’t already awakened by the fire, something had to be wrong. Daehler saying he had what he needed came to mind. He’d figured it was only whatever they’d needed to start the fire, but maybe the sadistic bastard had procured something else to insure the Hales would remain unaware of their lives burning up around them and them with it.

When Stiles reached the top of the stairs, every bone and muscle in his body screamed at him to run to the end of the hall, where Derek’s door would be. But Noah and Eli’s room was first, and there was no way he could just leave them there.

The smoke on the second floor was much more intense. He was grateful for the water-logged shirt around his face, for what little relief it provided. His skin felt scalded already, and he had been in the house for mere minutes.

Stiles touched the door to the boys’ room, heaving a sigh in relief when it didn’t feel hot. He pushed it open and nearly burst into tears when he saw the twins lying in their beds, sound asleep. He rushed over to them and called their names, shaking them a little.

Minimal response. They didn’t waken.

Something was definitely wrong. He quickly tied two of the strips around their heads, tightly but not so much that it hindered rather than helped. Then he grabbed them around their middles, one under each arm.

_God, Derek always makes this look so easy._

Trekking down the stairs with two boys as luggage was incredibly slow going. The flickering flames and billowing smoke made his blood race and anxiety increase. He had to get moving.

Once outside, Stiles carefully placed them on the ground and removed the cloths, making sure their noses and mouths were clear and their chests were rising and falling evenly. They still hadn’t woken up, but that was a worry for later.

He rushed back inside, ignoring the pinkness of his skin, and how it already hurt to breathe through his nose and mouth. Stiles took the stairs, two at a time, and tapped his fingers against the next door, testing its temperature. He thought it was Cora’s room, with Laura’s right across the hall.

Swinging the door open, trying to fight down a coughing fit, he was greeted by a familiar sight. Cora was lying peacefully on her bed, blissfully unaware of the fire roaring around her. Stiles stumbled to her--the reduced oxygen and trips up and down the stairs were making him slightly lightheaded--and tried to rouse her.

This time, thankfully, he had more success. Cora opened her eyes, blinking them slowly and blearily, trying to focus on his face.

“We have to get out of here!” Stiles all but shouted at her. He held up a piece of his shirt. They were drying out, and he’d need to soak them again when he went outside. “Tie this around your nose and mouth! Stay low!”

He pulled her out of bed, fighting with the covers, pushing on her shoulders when she tried to stand up straight. She moved sluggishly, as though her body were weighted down, and Stiles could tell that she wasn’t fully comprehending what was going on, or possibly even who he was.

Once outside of her room, Stiles paused, considering. “Stay here! Stay low! I’ll be right back.”

Hopefully his luck would hold with Laura. He barely remembered to test the door before opening it. Laura was actually awake, if groggy, and coughing her lungs out by the looks of it. Smoke was pouring out of the vents in her room. The fire must be getting close to it.

“Laura! Come on!” Stiles handed her a strip. “Put this over your face and stay low! Let’s go!” He put her arm across his shoulders, and together they hobbled out into the hall.

Cora had fallen back asleep, sitting against her doorframe.

“Oh, god, don’t hate me,” Stiles mumbled before striking her across the cheek with his palm.

She jerked awake, eyes glazed. Stiles pulled her up by an arm and wrapped his around her waist.

“Down the stairs!”

They had just made it outside and Stiles was checking on the boys when glass exploded to his left. A burning bookshelf had fallen into the window, shattering it upon impact. The boys were still asleep, but breathing fine from what he could tell. Laura and Cora collapsed near them, still moving like molasses.

Sedated. Matt must have used a sedative… The thought made him want to throw up, but he couldn’t dwell on it now.

“Stay here! I’m going to go get Derek and your parents,” Stiles said, not sure if either of the girls was able to fully parse what he was saying.

Glancing toward the road that led to the house, he couldn’t make out any flashing lights. He just hoped they were on their way. Dashing over to the bird bath, he soaked the three remaining strips of shirt again.

Stiles ran back inside, pushing thoughts of his aching muscles and pained skin aside. He narrowly missed a crossbeam falling from the ceiling near the archway that led into the small family room. Hissing, he brushed burning embers off his shoulder.

Ignoring it, he climbed the stairs again, rushing toward the back of the hall, and heading straight for Derek’s door. Barely letting his fingers touch the door to test, he ran inside, only to come to a dead stop.

Derek wasn’t there.

“Derek!” Stiles shouted. “Derek!”

He checked the other side of the bed, just in case Derek had somehow fallen off it. Absently, he noted that the window was open, and the back of his mind reminded him that Laura’s had been, too.

Stiles looked inside the closet, panic rising in his chest. The smoke burned at his lungs, his throat, his eyes. But more than anything, the fact he couldn’t find Derek burned at his heart.

Coughing, and holding back tears, he stumbled toward the master bedroom of the house. Talia and David were lying motionless on their bed.

“Wake up!” He shook both of them roughly. “Your house is on fire! We have to get out!”

Talia woke up first, if slowly. She said something, but he couldn’t make it out with the tears stinging his eyes.

“Come on!” He pulled on their arms, and they finally got with the program, basically falling out of bed to get up. He handed them pieces of his shirt and corralled them toward the hall.

Flames were starting to climb upstairs, licking at the bannister. He could smell singed hair. Smoke was choking him, them all really. But they finally made it outside. Talia and David ran to their children, falling to their knees on the ground beside them.

He stumbled after them, coughing. “Where’s Derek?” he thought he was able to get out. At Talia’s lack of response he raised his voice. “Where’s Derek?!”

Talia seemed to snap out of it, and looked at him and then back at her family, searching. “He wasn’t in his room?”

Panic gripped him tight, rooting him to that spot. But then he was off and running, dashing back inside the house.

Stiles didn’t see Talia reach out and make a move toward him, or David grabbing her shoulders to hold her back. He didn’t see her gasp and burst into tears, hiding her face on David’s shoulder when another window exploded.

Stiles didn’t see any of it.

*****************

Derek sat in his car, stopped on the side of the road. He can’t believe he’d snuck out of his house, but he’d had this all-consuming need to go and see Stiles. There was no way what they’d been saying on the news was true. 

Every story he’d seen had dealt with how Stiles had been taken into custody for questioning over the murder of Adrian Harris. School had been cancelled until further notice, since the murder had occurred on campus. It was now a crime scene. 

But there was no way Stiles was involved. It just wasn’t possible. No matter his current, confused jumble of feelings towards the other boy, he knew Stiles. And Stiles wasn’t capable of hurting someone in cold blood. 

Derek had been wanting to go to the station all day, but his parents had requested everyone stay home for the day, that then wasn’t a time for anyone to be out and about. Dinner had been a silent affair, a strange event in his household--siblings were bickering or laughing, and his parents usually joined the fray at some point; sometimes they instead talked over whatever else was going on at the table.

But now that he had snuck out through his window and had travelled halfway to the station, he didn’t know what to do. Or what to think. He still couldn’t believe what Stiles had said about his uncle. Just like the fact that Stiles’ arrest couldn’t be true, Stiles’ accusations about one of his favourite family members also were fabricated. There was just no way…

Derek was brought out of his melancholic thoughts by loud sirens and flashing lights heading straight toward him. A small caravan of fire engines, ambulances, and deputy squad cars sped by him, heading toward the outskirts of town, near the preserve.

But the only thing on that side of Beacon Hills was…

_My house!_

Derek roughly turned the ignition key and made an abrupt u-turn, tearing down the street back toward home. His breaths shortened. It couldn’t be… There was no way…

The Camaro came to a screeching halt behind the emergency vehicles that were clustered in his yard. Barely putting it into park and leaving the engine running, he clambered out and dashed forward, calling out.

“Derek!”

His mom’s voice rang in his ears from behind him, the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. He turned around and saw his family--his entire family!--grouped together huddling under a giant blanket on the back of an ambulance. The boys were asleep in his dad’s and Laura’s arms, while Talia’s arms were wrapped around Cora. Cora was crying, visible tracks of tears on her smoke-smudged face. Laura’s face was the picture of shock, as her hand absently smoothed Noah’s hair.

Talia held out one arm and pulled Derek into her embrace.

“What happened?” Derek asked, muffled against her sleeping gown.

“Our house is on fire…” Breathlessly, she squeezed his shoulders and placed a kiss into his hair.

“I know--I’m just--I’m so glad you all got out okay,” he said, pulling back.

His mother’s face tightened into a frown, and a few tears escaped down her cheeks. “Oh, Derek…”

“What? Mom, it’s okay. It’s just a house. We’re all okay.” Talia shook her head, as though refusing what he was saying. “What is it?”

“It’s Stiles…”

“Stiles? What about him?” Derek didn’t care that his voice cracked in the middle. “Mom!”

“Derek… He was the one who saved us. He pulled us all out of the house…” She shook her head again. “Dammit! My head’s all muddled; it’s so fuzzy… He was there, and he tied wet pieces of cloth around our faces, and he saved us, Derek!”

Talia was full on crying by then, tears streaming down her black-streaked face. Derek looked around at all of the milling people, like a kicked anthill they were moving about. He glanced at the other ambulance but it was empty.

“So where is he, Ma? Where’s Stiles?” Derek took in her sad face, then Laura’s, who had finally focussed on her brother and whose expression was a mixture of guilt and sadness, and then his father’s sombre countenance.

“Son…” David began, placing a hand on Derek’s shoulder.

“No!” He shook off the hand and backed away. “Where’s Stiles?! Where is he?!” What they were saying couldn’t be true… Stiles couldn’t be…

He just couldn’t!

“Derek! When he brought us all out here, he asked me where you were. I told Stiles that you should have been in your room, a panicked look came over his face and he ran back inside--Derek!”

Derek took off for the house, feet pounding against the ground, racing for the front door. Hands grabbed his shoulders tightly and stopped him in his tracks. He whirled around to see a deputy he knew from the station.

“You can’t go in there, Derek! It’s not safe!”

“But Stiles is in there!” He tried to free himself from the man’s grip, but all of the fight had left him, and now he just felt weak and exhausted. “Stiles…”

“The firefighters are preparing to go in after him; they just need to figure out the best way to do it. The fire has nearly consumed--”

A loud explosion sounded from within the house, and windows shattered somewhere. The distinct roar of flames increased in intensity. Derek’s heart stopped and stuttered into resuming a normal beat.

“Stiles!” Derek nearly broke free of the deputy, but then more arms wrapped around him, and he found himself enveloped by his parents. He fisted his dad’s shirt, tears choking his voice. “Stiles is in there, Dad.”

“We know, honey. It’ll be okay, I--”

Crashing noises came from the side of the house, where a portion of the ceiling and porch caved in. Derek buried his face in his dad’s shoulder and just let the tears come.

“Oh, my god…” His mother’s voice was barely a whisper. Then it came in a shout. “Hey! Guys! He’s at the front!”

Derek looked up. It couldn’t be…

“Stiles!”

There he was, coming out the front door, carrying a whole bunch of stuff, skin covered in soot and ash and red-raw from the fire, but it was him. It was Stiles. He was alive!

Stiles was walking down the porch steps when a coughing fit overtook him, shaking his whole body. He dropped whatever he was holding and collapsed on the ground at the foot of the stairs.

EMTs ran forward, and Derek was right with them, his parents following close behind.

In between coughs, Stiles was muttering something that sounded like, “I couldn’t find him… I couldn’t find him… I’m so sorry…”

Derek gently took one of his hands, making sure he wasn’t in the way of the paramedics. Knowing Stiles wouldn’t be able to hear him, he spoke anyway. “It’s okay, gorgeous. I’m here. You found me. I’m right here. You’re gonna be okay.”

The last was more directed at the medical professionals, who didn’t answer him. They fitted a mask around his face and twisted the valve on the oxygen tank to full. Then they lifted him onto a gurney that another EMT had brought when Derek wasn’t looking. With that movement, Stiles seemed to come out of whatever daze he had been in and focussed on Talia, who was busy picking up the objects Stiles had dropped, an awed expression on her face. He moved the oxygen mask away from his face.

“I couldn’t find him… So I found those… I hope…” He had to stop to cough. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find him. I wish it had been me…” He started coughing and the medics put the mask back over his nose and mouth.

Stiles’ words broke Derek’s heart. He stepped closer to the gurney, threading his fingers with Stiles’. “You did. You found me, Stiles. I’m right here.”

“I couldn’t find you, Derek. I couldn’t… You weren’t there. But you’re here?” Stiles’ voice was hoarse, but it sounded like a choir singing to Derek. He was alive!

Derek nodded where Stiles could see him, a giant, tear-filled grin on his face. Stiles kept mumbling, “You’re here,” over and over as they carted him toward an ambulance.

As they were about to lift the gurney into the ambulance, Stiles spoke up again. “Wait! I want to see my dad. Is he on his way? I need to see him…”

A nearby deputy said, “He was just on the radio, he’s just a few minutes out. I don’t think he knew his son was involved, though…”

Talia stepped up to the gurney. “Would it hurt him to stay for five more minutes?”

“No, ma’am. Just make sure his mask stays on.” The man who answered then went to check on Derek’s siblings. Derek’s dad went with him.

Talia smiled at Derek. “You’ll be okay here for a little bit?”

Derek just nodded, words beyond him at the moment. Stiles shifted on the gurney and tried to remove his mask again.

“No, you just sit right there and keep that on. You scared us all, you know. I don’t know if you can understand me at all, and I don’t have the thinking power to try sign language, but you’re gonna be okay. And your dad is almost here. Then we’ll get you to the hospital, okay?”

Derek reached up and cupped Stiles’ cheek, bringing his hand to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss there. His entire body looked like it was covered in a sunburn, and there were several spots that looked a little worse.

Stiles kept mumbling apologies. He was sorry for not getting there sooner. He was sorry for not finding more things to save. He was sorry for not being able to find Derek.

“Shh. You know the Hales are going to worship you, right? We’re all going to follow you along and kiss the ground you walk on. None of this ‘sorry’ business. You’re our hero, for now and forever.”

More lights were flashing, and Derek saw another squad car pull up, this time marked with the word Sheriff. Stiles’ father had arrived on the scene. He saw the man get out and surveil the incredible goings-on for a moment, not realising that his son was the victim on the ambulance gurney.

“Hey, Stiles, your dad’s here--”

Several things happened at once. Stiles was squinting at something over Derek’s shoulder toward the treeline, and then he was ripping away his oxygen mask, hopping off the bed, and shouting, “Get down!”

Derek was shoved forcibly to the ground, surprise allowing him to collapse in a heap beside Stiles’ feet.

Another shout, from a different source. The voice sounded vaguely familiar.

_“NO!”_

_“Dad! Gun!”_

Stiles again.

Then three loud bangs in quick succession.

A soft grunt.

Silence.

Then everybody was shouting at once. Derek climbed to his feet. He looked to where Stiles had been looking moments ago. Deputies were swarming the area. A blonde woman was in cuffs already and there was a prone figure lying still on the ground. Derek turned back to face Stiles.

“What just--”

“Derek…” Stiles’ voice was small. His hand came away from his abdomen red. It was covered in blood!

Derek’s eyes widened as Stiles’ collapsed in front of him. Derek caught him just before he hit the ground.

“Help! Somebody help! He’s been shot!” Derek shouted.

“Stiles has been shot!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to let me know how you feel about it! Densely packed, wasn't it? 
> 
> Leave a comment or visit me at my [tumblr](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com)!


	15. Breaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which things are broken, but are they irreparable?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. _Wow._ It's been a long time, hasn't it? And for that I apologise. Life happens.
> 
> Without further ado, let's get on with the show!

Derek stood looking at his own reflection in the mirrored window. His eyes stared back at him like they were seeing nothing, like they had seen too much. His face was expressionless, but on the inside, a battle was raging between anger, disgust, overwhelming anxiety, and a deep-seated exhaustion. His bones were weary, but he had to power through it. For Stiles.

_Stiles…_

Derek shook his head, peering passed his face into the room beyond, at Kate Argent, the blonde woman they’d taken into custody at his house, flames that were consuming everything he’d ever known roaring around them, and sirens screaming as the ambulance carried the light of his life away from him and toward the hospital.

Sheriff Stilinski stood beside him, arms crossed, expression giving away nothing as he looked in on a deputy settling down to begin the interrogation. For being handcuffed to the table, after being brought in by basically the entire station, most of whom had guns drawn on her, Argent looked eerily calm.

“State your name for the record,” the interrogating officer began.

“Kate Argent,” she said, leaning back to get as comfortable as she could.

“What were you doing at the Hale residence two nights ago?”

“Aren’t we going to make some sort of deal?” Kate’s neutral, almost bored façade faltered slightly before she regained control.

“You tell us what we want to know first, then we’ll talk deals.”

Derek’s jaw dropped. “Deals? You can’t be serious! She can’t bargain her way out of this! She tried to burn my family alive! And Stiles--” He cut himself off, throat closing up at the merest mention of what had happened to Stiles.

The sheriff put a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Enough. It’s just a tactic, son. There’s nothing on the table, so nothing’s binding, got it?” The man crossed his arms back over his chest, his eyes having never left Argent’s face. “And it’s all up to the DA once we get it all on tape anyway, so it’s out of our hands one way or another.”

Derek understood that, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. He hadn’t liked a lot of things lately.

*******

_The ride quickly became interminable. Derek glanced quickly at the speedometer and then back up at the ambulance, its flashing lights getting farther and farther away._

_"Mom! Do something! They're getting away," he said, his voice breaking in the middle, not daring to look at his mother, whose expression of mixed sympathy and worry would almost certainly cause him to break down._

_"Derek, sweetie, we don't have the luxury of lights and sirens that would allow us to break the most basic of traffic laws. I'm doing what I can."_

_"No, you're not!" Derek shocked himself and his mother with his vehemence. "He saved you, all of you! And he tried to tell... And he's in that thing, bleeding out--dying!--because I..." Derek didn’t even have it in him to be grateful for the way his mom turned on the hazards and started to accelerate._

_“Because you what, honey? What did he try to tell you?”_

_When Talia took his hand in hers, he just lost it. Everything that had happened came crashing down on him. Seeing his house go up in flames, and nearly getting sick with worry at thinking his family was still stuck inside; the flooding relief that overpowered his senses when he saw that his family was okay and waiting for him; the panic that threatened to steal his breath away when Stiles was mentioned in conjunction with anything that was happening there, the way his mind put two and two together without his realising it; and the fear over watching the light from Stiles’ eyes drain away with his blood._

_“He tried to tell me about Peter, the night he...was arrested. Stiles tried to warn me, and I didn’t believe him! I couldn’t...Uncle…” The honorific was ashes in his mouth. “I could have gotten you all killed. And instead of...hating me like he should...he was sat there apologising like it was all his fault. He saved you. He saved all of us!”_

_“Oh, my dear, he was talking about your uncle. It’s natural to not want to believe the worst about those we love. It’s okay to be upset over Peter’s death, my lionheart.”_

_“No! I’m not upset. He fucking shot Stiles, who never did anything wrong! He’s been through hell--and Peter deserves to be dead. I won’t mourn him. He doesn’t deserve it; not after what he did.”_

_Talia looked as though she wanted to say more, and the fact that she didn’t say anything about his swearing spoke volumes, but left it at a gentle squeeze to her son’s hand and pressed a little harder on the accelerator._

_Derek just held on and followed the flashing lights ahead with his eyes, hoping his thoughts that stayed with Stiles helped in some way._

*******

But he was faced with this instead because his thoughts hadn’t been any help. He had to watch his uncle’s partner-in-crime get interrogated with a smug little smile on her face as she wove her tale of woe.

And what a tale it was.

They had met, Peter and Kate, well over a year ago, after a presumed snub by the Hales toward Peter. They had cut him out of their will, so he said, and that everything would go to the children upon their deaths, taking away his share of the family fortune. He’d somehow managed to procure a copy of the will and figured out a loophole that would cause the money to go to him if the entire family died and there were no more heirs.

Kate didn’t really care about any of that, she told the deputy with a flip of her hair, and she’d said the same to Peter when they’d met. But he’d learned that she had a passion--Derek grimaced when she used that word--for fires, and that definitely had her interested.

So they’d hatched a plan together to take down the Hale family and get Peter his money, with a cut for Kate, of course. After a while, they realised they’d need a third person, since Peter said he couldn’t take part in the actual execution of the plan.

He had an inside man in the department, and from him Peter heard about the soon-to-be-released Matt Daehler and his not-so-respectably lengthy rap sheet. Peter and Kate set about recruiting him.

“Who was his source?” Deputy Porter interrupted.

“Michaels, I think. I wasn’t really interested in all the minutiae, you see,” Argent said with a wicked smile.

“Go,” Sheriff Stilinski said, startling Derek.

The deputy who had been in the observation room with them, monitoring the interrogation officially since the sheriff couldn’t, immediately stood and left the room. Derek couldn’t believe one of their own would be in on this, that there’d be a crooked cop in their town. He was just glad it would be over for him now, that the bastard would be put behind bars.

The sheriff ran a hand over his eyes tiredly. “I can’t believe I didn’t put it together sooner. His name was on the arrest record for Stiles, and I never received word that he’d been booked…”

Hesitating for a moment, Derek put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “There was no way you could have known.”

“Continue,” the interrogator’s voice came over the speaker.

Everything was going fine until the sheriff’s son became involved with Derek--a blessing and a curse. Then Daehler’s vendetta against Stiles--and through him, the sheriff--became beneficial rather than the nuisance and potential distractor that Peter figured it would have been. It kept Stiles occupied, or so they thought it would, and out of their business.

Only Stiles proved to be smarter than they thought, and Daehler messed up by nearly killing him, and alerting the whole town. Peter had found out about Daehler’s arrest warrant from Michaels and had confronted him. That’s when Stiles accidentally made his presence known to them, and they were forced to move up their plans.

Peter said he knew how to get rid of Stiles once and for all and tie up a loose end, so he’d sent Kate to the school to kill Adrian Harris, from whom she’d gotten all the information she needed to set a fast-consuming fire without any traceable accelerant. She called 911 and told them she saw a kid entering the high school with a gun and shortly thereafter heard a gunshot. Peter sent a text from Derek’s phone--he’d had it and the rest of the family’s phones cloned to easily monitor their comings and goings--to Stiles’ once he’d ascertained they were no longer together, telling him to go to the high school.

“And the idiot fell for it. Young love, I suppose,” Argent said, a stupid smile on her face.

Derek surged forward, wanting to shatter the glass that separated them so he could wrap his hands around the bitch’s throat and watch as the life left her body. Sheriff Stilinski easily caught him, pulling him back, shocking him out of his violent thoughts.

“Easy, son,” he said, voice gentle but choked with cloaked anger. “Easy…”

“I’m going to mention again that anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. All things considered, with what exactly happened to Mr Stilinski, I wouldn’t be calling him names, were I you,” Deputy Porter said.

Argent looked up at the mirror, expression neutral, and for a moment, Derek would have sworn she was looking straight at him. But she flipped her hair over her shoulder again, and returned her gaze to the interrogator.

“Fair enough,” she said. “Where was I?” she asked smugly, as though she knew exactly where she’d left off, and knowing what little he did about her, he realised she was just toying with them. They were the mice, and she was the cat. She was acting like she had them exactly where she wanted them, even though she was the one under interrogation.

“Oh, right. Setting the Stilinski boy up for murder…”

Peter had somehow managed to make certain that it was the deputy he had in his pocket who would be lead officer on the arrest. From then, it was easy going on making sure that the sheriff never found out about his son’s arrest until it was too late.

Derek was forcibly brought out of his roiling thoughts when the sheriff’s phone rang loudly from his pocket.

“Stilinski,” he answered gruffly, voice belying the anger that his face did not give away.

“I’ll be right there.” The officer snapped his phone shut and looked at Derek. “He’s waking up.”

Derek’s knees threatened to buckle again, but this time, he kept his balance, throwing out a hand to steady himself on the wall.

*******

_Finally acknowledging that the pacing wasn’t helping, Derek sat down on one of the chairs in the nearly empty waiting room. His entire world had narrowed into a single pinprick of existence, and he was unconscious in the operating room. Derek couldn’t even process what had really transpired that night; he was singularly focussed on the goings-on in the hospital._

_He was barely aware of his parents sat across from him, or Sheriff Stilinski standing in the corner near the door, watching the passersby like death warmed over. He gave a little jolt whenever someone walked by who was wearing scrubs or a white coat--his finger was on the trigger and he was ready to fire. Derek didn’t blame him; he was sure his eyes went comically wide whenever a hospital staffer walked by the waiting room._

_He shot out of his seat when a doctor walked into the room, tearing off his mask and surgical cap, quickly followed by Melissa McCall. The surgeon’s face was grim, and though his nerves were already on edge and his heart was pounding, the expression on the man’s face heightened his anxiety until it was difficult to breathe._

_“We did all we could,” the doctor began. “There were complications on the table.”_

_Derek’s strength gave out, and gravity took him to his knees. “No…” he heard himself whisper. He distantly felt his mother’s arms wrap around him. This couldn’t be happening. Stiles couldn’t be…_

_“What are you saying?” The sheriff’s voice cut through the haze in Derek’s mind. “Are you saying…?”_

_“There was a lot of bleeding from where the bullet entered his abdomen. His body went into shock, and his heart stopped.”_

_His breath hitched in his throat at the surgeon’s next words. Time itself stopped._

_“But we were able to remove the bullet, stop the bleeding, and get his heart pumping again.”_

_The sheriff moved suddenly and fisted the physician’s scrubs in his hands. “Tell me straight out. Is my son going to be okay?”_

_The doctor seemed alarmed at the officer’s sudden presence, but Derek couldn’t even think about that. He was hanging onto the man’s every word, muscles so tense he thought they might snap from their tendons._

_“There is a high probability for a full recovery. We have to watch for infection, and he’s on blood products for hypovolemia. I didn’t quite like his oxygen stats, so he’s still intubated for now, but he should come off that in a few hours.”_

_Derek covered his face with his hands, relief and shock battling in his veins, and they came away wet. And yet he felt like laughing; it was already bubbling up in his chest, threatening to burst out of him._

Stiles is gonna be okay. He’s going to be all right, _Derek kept repeating to himself._

*******

Car rides were not Derek’s friends recently. He felt as though they were travelling backward, and not nearly fast enough, as the sheriff virtually meandered through town toward the hospital. Why were the two buildings not closer together—who plans a town and doesn’t put the sheriff’s station next to the hospital?—and why the hell was he not using his sirens?

Derek didn’t realise he’d spoken aloud until the officer’s gruff voice broke the thick silence that blanketed the car.

“I don’t like to abuse my power, son, but believe me, I’d like to.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I just…” He left his words hanging, unsure how to voice what he was feeling without digging himself in a deeper hole.

“No need to apologise, Hale,” Sheriff Stilinski said. “I can see how you feel about each other. Even if it is a little young to be like that…”

Derek didn’t think he was supposed to hear the last bit. But a small smile crept onto his face before he remembered just where he was heading and who he was going to see.

Each mile covered was another itch under his skin, and by the time the sheriff’s cruiser pulled into the hospital’s lot, parked only slightly haphazardly if Derek were pressed to comment, he swore it was crawling.

He knew Stiles was going to be okay, that his waking up was a great thing, but he also thought that reality could be shattered at any moment. That another doctor was going to come and talk to them and threaten to take away his…soul. There was no other way to put it. He just had this feeling that it wasn’t over yet… _Something_ was going to happen; he just didn’t know what.

Every time the elevator dinged that they’d passed another floor, Derek flinched. Apparently very noticeably, if what the sheriff said was anything to go by.

“He’s going to be fine, Derek. You heard that doc the other day.” The man seemed to speed up with every step as he led the way to Stiles’ room, eager to see his son awake.

“I know, I know. But…” And just like that, his breath was stolen from him as the sheriff opened the door to Stiles’ room. In the back of his mind, he noted the room was filled with flowers and gifts, cards and balloons. There wasn’t a surface left in the place that wasn’t covered by something splashed with colour and wishing Stiles well.

Stiles was sitting up, bright eyed, smiling and laughing with—Scott? Derek stood there dumbly as the sheriff walked into the room, laughing and hugged his son, tears tracking down his face. He hugged Stiles tightly—too tightly since Stiles groaned and his father pulled back apologetically and contented himself by sitting on the edge of the bed and placing an arm around Stiles’ shoulders. He honestly looked like a puppy that had found its favourite toy again.

 _Or,_ Derek mused, _like a father overcome with relief that his only son is awake and well—or getting there._

He took a tentative step into the room, thinking that maybe Stiles hadn’t seen him yet, and the apprehension that had settled in the bottom of his stomach as a thin layer of ice suddenly turned to an iron grip. When Stiles’ gaze fell upon Derek, the grin slipped off his mouth, and his face shuttered behind some emotionless mask.

Every bone in Derek’s body froze, solid ice in his veins as Stiles whispered something to his father, who passed a confused look between the two of them before standing up and saying, “I think I’ll go chat up that doctor.”

The sheriff turned at the door, looking over Stiles who gave him a small smile in return, then closed the door behind him. Scott made a move to leave as well, but Stiles reached out and touched his arm, motioning him back toward one of the chairs in the room.

A tiny blossom of hope burgeoned inside Derek. If Stiles was allowing Scott to stay, anything he had to say couldn’t be that bad, could it? The opposite side of that coin was almost too terrible to consider: that Stiles felt he needed a witness to whatever might happen in the next few moments.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Derek said, voice shaking, and he settled himself at the foot of the hospital bed, gripping its plastic edges tightly. “You had us scared for a while.”

Stiles grimaced and closed his eyes, and his hand hovered over his abdomen where—where he’d been shot, Derek’s mind cruelly reminded him—a tube snaking out from above his fingers and connecting him to a bag of fluids hung beside his bed. Stiles sat up straighter, sucking in a breath when the movement must have pulled at his stitches. He was covered in bandages, some of them already stained by the weeping burn wounds underneath. His skin was pink and red, what little remained uncovered, and it made Derek ache just thinking what pain that the light pressure of air must bring.

“We need to talk,” he said after taking a deep breath.

Derek’s grip on the bed’s footboard tightened as the strength threatened to leave his legs. Those words were never followed by good news. At least that’s what pop culture had taught him. And by the set of Stiles’ mouth and jaw, he figured it was true now as well.

He swallowed heavily. “All right.” His brain went into overdrive, trying to find ways to forestall…whatever was coming. “I’m betting my family is responsible for most of the stuff in here. They probably bought out the gift shop—”

“Derek.” Stiles’ voice cut through Derek’s tirade, voice firm and causing his anxiety to skyrocket. Derek was of half a mind to continue his rambling, to do _anything_ but let the inevitable happen.

Another deep breath and another wince. “I can’t be with you anymore, Derek.”

Whatever colour was left in Derek’s face drained out, and his vision tunnelled until Stiles’ face was the only thing he saw.

“No.” His voice was distant, muffled, as though he was hearing someone in another room.

“Derek, there’s no way we can just keep ignoring the blatantly obvious signs the universe keeps throwing at us!”

Derek stood there dumbly as the words tried to process in the brain that refused to parse anything passed the first thing Stiles said. He shook his head at Stiles, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, no, no, no…”

“I mean, the whole school doesn’t want us together. They can’t stand the thought of you being with me—”

“Fuck what the school thinks!” Derek spat over Stiles’ words, but Stiles continued right over him.

“Your sisters didn’t like me, not at first, and probably not now after I didn’t save the—it doesn’t matter. I was arrested, I was shot… Fate is screaming at us, _‘Don’t be with Derek!’”_

“No,” Derek said. Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but Derek cut him off. “No, Stiles. Don’t give me that bullshit. You don’t believe in that crap, so cut it out. I deserve a real answer. If—” His voice cracked, unable to deliver the words. He swallowed and tried again. “If you’re going to break up with me, I deserve a real answer. Don’t I?”

Stiles flinched at Derek’s words, but Derek couldn’t read his expression. He had no idea what was going on inside Stiles’ head, but it seemed as though he was warring with himself.

“You _left_ me!” This time, it was Stiles’ voice’s turn to crack, flooded with raw emotion. “I told you about…and you just ran out on me, Derek!”

Derek’s heart plummeted into his stomach. Whatever he’d been expecting Stiles to say, whatever answer he’d been ready to counter, _this_ hadn’t been it. He had no idea what to say, because… Well, it was true, wasn’t it?

Tears coursed down Stiles’ cheeks, and Derek wanted nothing more than to cross the space between them—seemingly getting wider with every moment—and wipe them away and gather Stiles into his arms.

“I’m not—” Stiles began, “I’m not saying, if things were switched, that I would have believed you, not at first maybe… But I wouldn’t just leave you behind, I wouldn’t crush your heart, I wouldn’t fucking _tell you to shut up._ ”

Derek’s eyes flicked to Scott, who up until this point had tried to seem like he wasn’t listening to every word they said and whose eyes now widened before morphing into a glower he settled on Derek.

“It all just comes down to trust. And you don’t trust me. Even if you thought you did, what happened the other night says you don’t. I can’t be with someone who doesn’t trust me. I can’t love someone who doesn’t trust me.”

Stiles’ words felt like shattered glass in his veins, slicing him open and leaving nothing but an open wound. Distantly he saw Stiles wiping at his face, clearing away the tears; Scott glanced at him and clenched his jaw, standing up.

“I think you should leave now, Hale,” the other boy said, moving toward him, chest held out like he was trying to be intimidating.

Derek felt his neck bend in an abrupt jerk of a nod, and then, with one last look at Stiles, whose eyes were closed and face turned in profile, he was turning his back on the boy whose heart he’d broken and who’d broken his in return.

**************

He didn’t remember getting there. He had no idea how he arrived at the hotel from the hospital, drenched after it had started pouring as soon as he stepped outside. He hadn’t felt it. He couldn’t feel anything. Derek wasn’t even sure how he’d had the mental capacity to fumble in his pocket for the key card. He hadn’t been aware of the strange looks he got in the lobby, barely able to put one muddy foot in front of the other, somehow managing to stay upright until he reached his room and collapsed upon his bed, soaking the rough comforter beneath him.

“Derek? I wasn’t sure you’d be back by now. We’re about to head out and grab some grub. Wanna come with? How’s—” There was a sharp intake of breath as his older sister finally turned on the lights and laid eyes upon her brother. “Oh, my god, Derek!”

Derek didn’t reply. He didn’t move. He could barely _breathe_ , let alone do anything else.

“What happened?” He felt the bed dip as she sat down before instantly jumping up again. “You’re soaked!”

Footsteps, then a faint click as Laura flipped on the lights in the bathroom, too. More quiet thuds as she padded over to him, and suddenly he was wrapped in something soft and warm. She’d brought him towels. It was all he could do to stare blankly at the wall, unable to muster the energy to give thanks.

“Shh, it’s okay. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay,” she whispered at him, and he realised whimpers were escaping his lips as he tried to contain his sobs.

Internally he was screaming back at her, _No! No, no, no! It won’t be okay. It will never be okay!_ But he couldn’t even gather the strength to shake his head. Instead his entire body trembled, and it wasn’t all due to the rain.

Distantly he registered that the bed dipped several more times. He figured it was Laura leaving, which was fine by him. He didn’t care one way or another. Eventually the tremors in his muscles exhausted him to the point of unconsciousness, but it wasn’t restful.

He was plagued by different nightmares of the same thing: Derek kept turning his back on Stiles. Stiles was upset about something, Derek would turn away. Stiles was happy, Derek turned away. Stiles was in danger, Derek faced the other direction.

In the end, it was the last type that won over all the others. Stiles would be in some type of jeopardy, and Derek would be forever turning away, turning his back on the best thing in his life. Finally Derek jerked himself awake with a gasp after he watched himself stand beside his uncle who pointed a gun at Stiles and turn away, allowing Peter to pull the trigger.

He stifled his tears as he slowly got his bearings, blinking into the darkness. He tried to move, but felt weighted down by something. Instantly panic reared inside him until something—no, _someone_ grumbled in their sleep. Derek suddenly realised he was no longer in his own hotel room; instead he’d been carried to his parents’ onto their enormous bed, and, after his eyes adjusted and he could count the bodies littering it, his entire family had joined him.

Noah was draped over his stomach, with Eli hanging onto one of his legs. Laura and Cora bracketed him, and his mother and father were on either side of the girls, their arms stretching across their daughters to grasp onto Derek’s arms.

Fresh tears pricked his eyes, and he was so happy that the first thing he could feel after being numb for so long was that his family cared for him, that they were all together and safe after such a tragedy.

Then he was struck by the thought that Stiles might not have this, the support of his family. Sure, he had his dad, and he knew their relationship had been strained lately, and it was always clear the two loved each other, but knowing Stiles… Yeah, Stiles would most likely just try and brush it all off, saying he was fine, that he just wanted to get out of the hospital.

Was it inappropriate to want to send his ex-boyfriend a teddy bear to cheer him up? He couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up and out at the thought of Stiles receiving the stuffed animal, seeing the card and the signature, and instantly ripping the head from it. Derek dissolved into a fit of laughter, startling awake his family. Was insanity gripping him this soon? Surely not if he could ask himself a question like that…

“Derek?” His mother’s sleep-drunk voice filtered over to him.

He sobered quickly, an errant giggle escaping now and then. “I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.” He glanced over at the clock, its red digits flashing just passed six in the morning. “I’m just going to go see about breakfast.”

“Sweetie, we need to talk,” Talia said, shifting to sit up more fully.

“Yeah, Ma, I know. But I’m just gonna see if they can send up a hot breakfast for us.” Derek was honestly surprised he even felt hungry, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, and if he was going to have to rehash everything out for his family again, he’d rather not do it on an empty stomach.

The distraction of food was always appealing when it came to his family, especially if that food was some sort of meat. Hopefully they could pile on the bacon and sausage in the kitchen of this place.

Derek didn’t know how, but he was able to keep his mind off the breakup and Stiles completely while downstairs, plating heaps of breakfast foods, though the other boy did pop into his head momentarily with how he’d be drooling over the steaming scrambled eggs and cheese and mountains of bacon. Instead of causing a pain in his chest, it brought a smile to Derek’s face, and that just felt _good._ He should be remembering the good things and not dwell on the bad.

That’s how he was able to greet his waking family with a smile, carrying in a steaming tray, and it might explain why they all were giving him strange looks in return—aside from the twins, who just grinned back at him.

“Uh, hey, Derek,” Laura said, snatching a piece of bacon before he could even set the tray on the small table near the door. “It’s nice to see you smiling.”

Derek plopped down in the one the plush chairs with a sigh, the smile draining from his face, but his face didn’t threaten to pull down in a frown again. It was almost as though—he wouldn’t say at peace with what had happened, because it still hurt like a son of a bitch, and he had no idea how he’d react once he actually saw Stiles again—but resigned might be a good term for it.

Sitting there with his family with him definitely helped, and even though he was dragging himself through what had happened again with them, he knew that he could get through it. He didn’t delude himself into thinking it would be easy—hell, this could have been the calm before the storm, and it was all downhill for a while after this—but it didn’t seem like this impossible hurdle anymore. Not like it had been just last night, when it was a mountain the summit of which he could never hope to reach, and, as he spilled the beans to his family, who all made appropriate commiserating noises, he didn’t want to dwell too much on how much of an awful person he might be for only taking one night to start feeling better over losing Stiles…

He said as much aloud, and everybody was quick to reassure him.

“No, of course not, Derek!”

“That’s natural, son; it’s part of the healing process.”

“No way you’re a bad person. Stiles—”

Derek was quick to silence Cora with a single look. He wouldn’t allow any badmouthing about Stiles. He was well within his rights to break up with Derek, and Derek himself couldn’t find it in himself to get angry with him after he’d revealed the true reason, so he wasn’t about to let anybody else blame Stiles.

“Honestly, I think you’re in shock.”

Everybody whipped their heads to Laura, intently studying her brother as she sat tailor-style on the bed. She ignored their looks and continued, “I mean, this big bomb drops on you just a few days after we lose our house, and our uncle, after you’ve been worried sick over him lying in the hospital, after foolishly watching Argent in her interrogation… You’ve had no time to process, and last night was your body’s way of saying, ‘Hey, man, you gotta stop for a while, else it’s all going to shit.”

Talia nodded and didn’t even admonish Laura for her swear. Laura seemed to find confidence in their mother’s agreement and sat up straighter.

“Your relationship was intense to begin with, but not in a bad way, I don’t think. You’d been pining after Stiles for years, and you studied to learn an entirely new language to be able to talk with him. C’mon, these are the things Harlequin novelists dream to write about, Derek.

“And all of a sudden, it was over. Right after this incredibly traumatic experience that _I_ haven’t even started to deal with. It’s gonna take some time. But we’ll help, if you want—and probably even if you don’t want.”

Derek suddenly didn’t really want to talk about this anymore. He was tired, and emotionally strained, and his inside were warring over anger, hurt, tears, or feeling nothing at all. Laura noticed this and stood up, gesturing at Derek.

“Come on. I’ve got something to show you. Mom didn’t think it was the right time the past few days, but now I think it’s perfect.” She crossed to the door that connected their parents’ and the twins’ room with the girls’ and opened, not bothering to see if Derek was following.

Anything else would be acceptable to stave off continuing this conversation, though Talia did stand up to wrap her son in a tight embrace before he wriggled out and stepped into the adjacent room. Laura was already seated on her bed next to a couple of boxes. Derek sat on the bed across from her, wondering what in the world she might have inside them.

“Now, I’m not gonna lie and say these things will make you feel better. They could help or they could hurt. So do you wanna see what’s in here?” Laura patted the two boxes, her face neutral and not giving anything away.

Derek was incredibly wary and dubious, considering her words, but of course curiosity got the better of him. He nodded minutely, and she handed him the first box.

“They’re the things that Stiles went back for in the house when he couldn’t find you, when he thought he’d lost you in the fire.”

He held the box gingerly, though it was made of cardboard, as though it might break in his hands, that whatever it held might be as fine and precious as spun gold. He had to swallow before he got his voice back.

“He went back for things when he didn’t see me in the house? Instead of saving himself… He was covered in burns! And it was…if I hadn’t snuck out…” The words caught in his throat, choking him, and he had to—he had to get out of there, he had to—!

Hands caught onto his and pulled him back to reality. “No, Derek, no! That wasn’t the point—I wanted to show you these things not so you could stupidly blame yourself, you dolt!”

Laura picked up the box where he’d flung it onto the bed next to him in his frenzy to escape and placed it back in his lap. “You need to see them, I think, because they’ll tell you a different story than whatever excuse Stiles gave you.”

Derek swallowed again. The pain of everything Stiles had said yesterday washed over him again. His hands shook as he opened the first box. He pulled out two large photo albums, still dusted in soot and ash. He brushed some off, fingers catching on gilded letters spelling out their family name.

“Mom, of course, burst into tears when she saw those as we were going through everything he’d saved. We all figured our photos would be gone.” Laura huffed out a small laugh, probably in exasperation at their mother.

Derek could only sniff in response, not trusting that anything more wouldn’t cause him to break down again. He set the albums aside and reached inside to retrieve a furled up poster. Unravelling it, he saw that it was one of Cora’s most prized possessions: a signed photo of her favourite band. He remembered taking the brat to the concert, standing there awkwardly, surrounded by preteen and teenaged girls—and more than a few soccer moms!—belting out the lyrics to a song that had been played at least a thousand times on all the local radio stations, Cora loudest of all. Derek rubbed a ripped corner between his fingers where some jerkoff had tried to steal it right from her hands after they’d had the poster signed, her eyes bright and shining, her mouth slightly slack from the shellshock of her idols briefly greeting her as they scribbled their names in silver and black inks.

“I don’t think Cora’s seen that one yet, or I’m sure she’d be freaking out. How about we hide it from her, get it framed, and then let her come home to it hanging on her wall whenever it gets…well, you know.”

A tiny smile tugged at his lips at the thought of Cora screaming at the sight of the framed poster, but it fell away quickly. He let the corner go and watched blankly as the dirty poster curled back into a loose roll.

He looked up to see Laura rolling the pendant on her necklace in her fingers. It was a simple diamond pendant, but it was older than she was. The legend was that the first Hale matriarch to set foot in America had worn it during the voyage over and it had been passed down to the firstborn daughter ever since. Laura had worn every day since Talia had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday, only taking it off when completely necessary.

“I’m not ashamed to say that I did cry when Mom gave this to me again.”

Derek gave a broken laugh at that, knowing how much she loved that necklace. He reached into the second box and really laughed when he retrieved a sooty stuffed pterodactyl and Apatosaurus, along with two blankets with miniaturised versions of their larger counterparts. Elijah and Noah were going to be thrilled that Flapjack and Applesauce (Noah’s pronunciation of the long-necked dinosaur was a little off) were saved—their faithful nighttime companions. They never wanted to sleep without them unless they could be tucked in with someone else, which was probably why they hadn’t been pitching fits the last few nights.

He had to wipe away a few tears that escaped down his cheeks, as he clutched the stuffed animals to his chest and pulled out the next and final set of items from the second box. He instantly recognised them as objects from around his room.

His grip went white-knuckled on the baseball that had the Sharpie signatures of all the Yankees. His dad had surprised him with a special trip to New York for his thirteenth birthday, just to see the Yankees play at home field. Derek had even been lucky enough to catch a ball that had soared into the stands. It hadn’t been a game winning hit or anything, but it was still one of the best memories he had with his father.

Derek pulled out a tangled cluster of handmade jewellery that Cora had made a couple of years ago, when she had discovered the hobby store with Talia one day. The beads, strings, shiny stones, and metal charms had caught her eye and she’d instantly become obsessed, wanting to make them all something they could wear. Needless to say, Derek hadn’t worn his quite as proudly as he should have, at least not on his person—but he had tied a couple to his backpack until the string had become frayed and threatened to break. Then he’d displayed them in random spots throughout his room.

There were also the handprints-in-clay that Noah and Elijah had brought home from their first day in kindergarten. They were just supposed to make a pair for their parents, but the twin boys had politely asked if they could also make one for their big brother, too, and the teacher had been so touched the results had hung on his bedroom wall ever since.

Derek laughed wetly through his tears when he saw a slightly crumpled piece of paper at the bottom. He knew what it was without pulling it out: a comic drawn by Stiles that featured the two of them as superheroes against the world, with him wielding a super-powered lacrosse stick and Stiles swinging a bat that always broke but repaired itself. It was actually really well drawn—Stiles would never stop surprising him, ever—and the dry humour never failed to make him laugh when he read it over and over again.

He looked up, soft laughter still bubbling up through his tears, and found Laura looking at him fondly with a look in her eye he couldn’t quite identify, him sat on the bed, surrounded by all these things that Stiles had saved for them from the fire.

“Tell me again what Stiles said to you, Derek,” Laura said quietly.

“He…” His breath left him in a huff, and he sucked it back in shakily. “He said he couldn’t be with someone he didn’t love, someone who didn’t trust him… I left him after he warned me about Peter, after telling him to shut up…”

Laura sat next to him, her weight dipping the mattress down, and she put a comforting arm around his shoulders.

“It’s okay, Derek. We all say things we don’t necessarily mean when we get upset,” she said, pressing a kiss into his hair.

“No, it’s not. It’s something—he’s heard it his whole life, Laura! I never wanted to be one of those people. How could I—”

“Derek, stop, just stop! Look around you,” Laura interrupted, gesturing around them at the scattered objects he’d pulled from the boxes she’d handed him. “Does all this look like something somebody who doesn’t love you or doesn’t want to be with you would do?”

"But--"

Laura cut him off. "From what I gather, _he broke out of jail_ to risk his life when he couldn't find you, instead going back for things he knows are important to you, and not just for you! The rest of us too! It means he listened to you when you talked about us, that he paid attention to things we liked and cared about. It means he loves you, and he _knows_ you, probably better than you do. That's not someone who easily made the decision to walk away from everything you had together."

"Then why did he break up with me?" Derek asked, voice quiet and mind mulling over everything Laura had just said.

"He was hurt, both physically and emotionally, and both because of you." Laura held up a hand when he sputtered, ready to defend himself. "And while his physical injuries aren't your fault, not by a long shot, he's trying to protect himself." She went silent, thinking and choosing her next words carefully. "Didn't you say he tried to tell you he was ending things for a different reason?"

Derek barked out a laugh. "Yeah, but it was just some bullshit about how we aren't good together, and that the universe doesn't want us together."

Laura pursed her lips, considering. “Well, maybe there was some truth to that--at least some that Stiles believed!” She was quick to add when Derek made to protest again. “He seems self-sacrificing to a fault--I mean, look at all that he’s done. So maybe he thinks you’re better off without him, and you yelling at him was just the catalyst he needed.”

Derek cringed at her words, but they rang true in his ears. Hadn’t Stiles intimated time and again that he wasn’t deserving of Derek? Hadn’t Derek sworn to show him the error of his ways? But instead all he’d done was throw everybody else’s words back in Stiles’ face.

“So what?” His words were bitter in his mouth.

Laura stood up and rolled her eyes at him. “So now you need to fight for him. Obviously neither of you is ready to leave the other behind. But he’s not gonna just take you back. He needs to know he means something to you, and you need to show him.”

Derek squashed the hope that bloomed in his chest at his sister’s suggestion, crushed it into nothingness, until he only remembered the ache that was placed there in Stiles’ hospital room.

“I’m not going to force my affections onto someone who doesn’t want them.” He stood and made his way to the adjoining door.

“But Derek—!”

“I’m going to take the trays and plates back downstairs,” he said, shutting the door on whatever she had to say.

The rest of his family was gone from the room, something for which he was eternally grateful, thankful they wouldn’t be watching him as he gathered the plates from their breakfast and asking endless questions. He was sure he had a scowl on his face fierce enough to frighten off a bear, and his parents, at the very least, would want to know what put it there.

The frown remained in place as he took the elevator down to the first level and deposited the empty trays in the breakfast area, and it deepened when he heard someone causing a scene in the lobby.

“Probably over pay-per-view he ‘didn’t order,’” Derek muttered to himself, turning to walk back to the lift.

Surprise etched his features, replacing the scowl, when he heard his family’s name spoken by the concierge at the front desk.

“The Hales have been through enough and have requested no visitors for the time being, sir. I’m certain you have nothing but good intentions with your insistence on seeing Mr Hale, but I cannot allow you—”

“McCall?” Derek’s voice cut through and surprised them both. The man at the desk jumped and Scott whirled around to face him.

“Finally,” Scott muttered under his breath. “Thanks for the help,” he said to the concierge before pushing off from the front desk, picking up a helmet in the process.

Derek hadn’t known that Scott drove a motorcycle.

“We need to talk,” the younger boy said, gesturing with his helmet toward a table.

“You know, I think I’m just going to walk away from the next person who uses those words on me,” Derek said, taking a seat.

Scott just levelled him with a look that spoke volumes about the not-in-a-joking mood he had. “I stopped by on my way to see Stiles—against my better judgment, I might add. He’s recovering really well, if you were curious.”

Derek made sure to contain his only reaction to that into a single shift in his seat, not willing to betray his true feelings to this almost-stranger, the former-turned-new best friend who had somehow entered Stiles’ life again.

“Physically, anyway,” he tacked on, albeit reluctantly.

Derek looked sharply at Scott then, instantly demanding an explanation. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s a wreck, man.” Scott wiped a hand over his face. “It’s not pretty. I mean, sure, he puts on a smile for everyone, telling his dad and me and Mom he’s fine, but I know him. I’ve known him forever. And he’s not… He’s just not.”

Scott met his eyes, anger burning within his brown irises. “And it’s because of you.”

“If you came here just to try and rip me a new one because your supposed best friend—where were you before all this, by the way?—is upset over ending things…” Derek made to stand up, but Scott grabbed onto his arm painfully hard and shoved him back into his chair.

“No, you asshole, and that’s between me and him. He broke up with you, and you let him!” Scott sighed. “I’m not saying it was a test, because Stiles isn’t like that—he wouldn’t play games. He said what he said, and he meant it all. But…it’s eating him alive. I can see it.”

“What are you saying, McCall?” Derek asked, irritation colouring his words.

“I don’t know, dude. I really don’t. Except from what I can tell, he broke up with you, and you walked away. _Again._ You didn’t fight for him, at least not very hard or for very long, and to him…” Scott trailed off, searching for the right words. “You basically told him that everything he’s ever thought about himself is true. That people leave. That they disappoint him. That they don’t really like him.”

The near echo of Laura’s words wasn’t lost on Derek. That two people had told him almost the same thing in the same day…

“He loves you, he really does—God, anybody can see it—for reasons unknown to me. And if you love him… Just don’t walk away.”

Derek sat there for a long time after the motorcycle helmet had left the table, frowning a hole into the floor.

Next thing he knew, Laura was wrenching the door open to his persistent, loud knocking with an exasperated and confused look on her face.

“Tell me what I have to do.”

Laura grinned.

*************

It started off small. It even started before Stiles got out of the hospital. Derek convinced the sheriff into letting him in their house to rearrange Stiles’ room so that everything that he could possibly need would be within easy reach, figuring that the doctors would order him to rest as much as possible for the next few days.

He stocked the fridge with home-cooked meals. He knew the sheriff didn’t cook much—Stiles always made the meals whenever he’d eaten with them. Derek made a few of Stiles’ and John’s favourites, things that could easily be put in the oven or microwave and heated up.

He retrieved all of the gifts and flowers and cards from the hospital room when Stiles’ dad said he was passed out on pain meds and distributed the flowers throughout the house before placing the majority of the gifts and cards in the bedroom.

Derek kept his distance though when Stiles was finally released from hospital care. He maintained that distance even after Stiles returned to school, though he was always hovering in the background whenever the other boy was around. He made sure the other students left him alone, quickly quashing any rumours that popped up that Stiles did this all to himself or for attention. It was the first time he ever received a detention, but breaking Brad’s nose with his knuckles was more than worth it.

The second phase of the plan involved shrinking that careful distance. He started making eye contact with Stiles, reluctantly drawing a small smile from those Cupid’s bow lips when Derek smiled at him. When he noticed that Stiles’ eyes started seeking his out when they passed in the halls, that’s when he started the next phase—the one he’d come up with himself.

Laura had said it was so incredibly dorky, but then she’d relented and said it was perfect. He started leaving notecards everywhere Stiles went entitled “1001 Reasons I Love Stiles Stilinski.” A few of his personal favourites included, _The way you laugh at your own jokes, the way you love Episodes IV-VI and abhor I-III but secretly like Jar Jar Binks_ , and _the way you make me happier than I’ve ever been. You constantly surprise me_ was a close runner up since it was honestly one of his favourite things about Stiles.

He left them taped to Stiles’ seats in different classes; slipped them in his backpack or his books when he wasn’t looking; stuffed them into Stiles’ locker and his Jeep; and even into his mailbox, which he was fairly certain was a federal offence, but he didn’t care. He had 1001 notecards to deliver quickly, and they’d taken him the entirety of a weekend to write—he was sure his callouses had callouses.

Derek made sure ones like _the sounds you make_ and _the constellations I map on your skin with my tongue_ were definitely hidden in books before he walked away. He never stayed to watch Stiles read them; he’s not sure he could handle it if there wasn’t any reaction or if he just threw them away without reading them, even if he had the right to do it.

The cards with _your love for comic books_ and _the fact you want a cat but are fiercely allergic_ and the like were placed in easy view, because Derek hoped they would get at least a small smile from Stiles.

He’d just delivered the final card that morning, and now he was sat in the locker room, lacing up his cleats. A shadow loomed over him, and for a split second full of hope he thought it was Stiles (whether to yell at him or tell him he loved Derek, too, he didn’t know or care at that moment; he just wanted to hear his voice again), but then he realised the person standing over him was also wearing lacrosse gear.

“Hey Derek,” Danny’s voice made him look up at his team member. “How’s it?”

“Alright, I guess.” Derek was more than a little surprised the guy was talking to him. Not many of his teammates had since he’d been with Stiles. The only thing that kept him on the team after he’d realised that was the potential for scholarships.

Danny placed his arm on the lockers behind Derek, putting himself more into Derek’s personal space, and he couldn’t help but look at the expanse of skin that was suddenly in his line of sight.

“I could help you forget Stilinski. We can talk about exactly how over a cup of coffee,” the Hawaiian said, running his thumb across Derek’s cheek.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Derek said, shrugging out of Danny’s caress. “I’m actually trying to get him back.”

“You didn’t break up with him?” Danny asked, surprise coating his voice. “Fair enough. The offer’s open if you change your mind.” And with that, he clapped Derek on the shoulder and walked away.

A clatter of heels was all the warning he had before something heavy hit him in the groin. Groaning loudly, he reached for whatever had been thrown at him with his free hand. Shock replaced pain in his system when he saw his handwritten, colour notecards held together with a rubber band.

“Stiles?” he asked, finally looking up at his aggressor.

Strawberry blonde fury met his gaze. Not Stiles then. The heels had made him doubt his first assumption anyway.

“What the fuck, Lydia?”

“I found those outside the _open door_ of the locker room.”

Derek blinked. “Okay…”

Lydia flipped her hair over her shoulder at his blatant confusion. “Do you know what I saw through said _open door_?”

When he remained silent, she huffed in annoyance. “Why are boys so stupid? I saw you and Danny Mahealani flirting.”

“I wasn’t flirting! He might’ve been, but I wasn’t,” Derek protested.

Maybe not. But that’s what I _saw_ through the _open door_.”

Derek just blinked, completely lost as to what she was trying to get at.

Lydia reached for the notecards and thumbed through them like a deck of playing cards. “And I found these outside. Any guesses as to who might have dropped them?”

“Who…?” Understanding dawned on Derek and his eyes widened. “Oh, _fuck._ ”

“I saw him take off running just before coming in here,” Lydia said as he got up in a rush, looking at her nails. “He’s long gone by now. Get your shit together before he's gone for good.”

“You couldn’t have just told me that?” Derek growled out in exasperation.

“Nothing that’s worth it should ever be easy,” was all she said before turning on her stilettos and clicking her way out of the boys’ locker room, curls bouncing with every step.

“Fuck,” he said again.

He said it again as he dropped listlessly onto Laura’s bed back at the hotel.

“What’s up?” she said, ruffling his hair.

Wordlessly he held up the stack of cards.

“He…returned them? Oh, Derek…”

He groaned and curled up into a ball, facing away from her as she flipped through them. She laughed at a lot of them, _aww_ ’d at several, gagged at a few, and made other unreadable noises at the majority of them.

After a few minutes, she shoved at his shoulder. “Derek, _Derek._ Quit being a baby and look at me. Why did he return them?”

“He might have assumed that I was returning the affections of another team member when he saw us talking in the locker room.”

“Am I starring in an episode of _Degrassi_?” Laura muttered under her breath. “Listen, I know you were planning on another phase of buying him a bunch of shit, but I think it’s time to move up the finale.”

“What? No, it’s over. He returned the cards, Laura.”

Laura shoved a card into his hand. On the back of _the way you laugh with your whole body_ was written _I love the way you make me laugh_ in Stiles’ scrawl. She handed him a few more cards. On the back of each was a response of some sort or a matching reason. She held up a final card. It was numbered 1002.

It simply read, _I love you, too._

*********

Derek pulled up to the Stilinski household, surprise and confusion etched onto his features as he saw Scott sat on the porch steps. He stepped out of the Camaro, leaving the bags of groceries in the trunk for now.

“What are you doing here?”

They both asked the question at the same time, each with thinly veiled, mild antagonism.

“I came to cook—”

“We were supposed to play—”

“You go first,” Derek said, gesturing magnanimously before pocketing his keys.

Scott rolled his eyes but said, “We had a bro date. We were gonna play Halo and make ourselves sick on chocolate, chips, and soda.” He looked down and scuffed his shoe on the concrete of the driveway. “We have a lot of time to catch up on.”

But Derek couldn’t even find it in himself to reply scathingly. He was too focussed on one simple fact.

“So why are you out here?”

Scott shrugged. “He didn’t answer the door or his phone. Figured he was out getting snacks or something.”

“His Jeep’s still here! But the cruiser’s not. I think the sheriff had a shift today.” Derek was mainly talking to himself at this point. “Maybe Stiles went with him to the station… Call the sheriff; ask him if Stiles is there.”

“Why would he go to the sheriff’s station?”

“Just do it!” Derek yelled, looking wildly for a rock that wasn’t a rock. He’d never used it, but Stiles had told him it was there. He gave a triumphant shout when he found it, opening it to get to the spare key that was hidden inside. “There’s no way he would miss one of your video game days. He went on and on about them before, said it wasn’t the same with me, that I always let him win—wouldn’t believe me that I’m terrible at the stupid things.”

Derek wasn’t sure if Scott heard him; he was on the phone with Shondra at the station, asking after the sheriff. He unlocked the door and rushed up the stairs.

“Stiles! Are you here? Stiles!” The back of his mind registered the futility of him yelling, but he did it all the same. His shouts stuck in his throat when he saw Stiles’ bedroom.

It was a mess, and not the mess of a sixteen year old boy. It was very obviously the scene of a crime, a fight, a struggle. The computer chair was overturned. Many of the vases that held mostly dead flowers by now were shattered on the floor. Books were strewn everywhere.

Oddly Stiles’ laptop was sitting seemingly untouched on his bed. Blood pounded in his ears, blocking out nearly everything. Stiles wasn’t here. But the laptop was. He took a step closer, into the room, though he felt like he shouldn’t. Stiles wasn’t there. He shouldn’t be there, not without Stiles.

Vaguely he heard Scott come up behind him. “Shondra said Stiles isn’t at the station—what the hell happened here?!”

Another step. He noticed there was a notecard placed neatly atop the computer. Two words were written on it. Words that weren’t penned by either Stiles or Derek.

_Open me._

“Call the sheriff back,” he heard himself say. “He’s taken Stiles.”

“What? Derek? Who’s taken Stiles?”

“ _Fucking call the sheriff_!”

Scott cursed under his breath, finally catching the severity of the situation, and left the room.

Derek carefully opened the laptop. It instantly came to life, and a video started playing, grainy at first, then solidifying into something sharper. Then he realised it wasn’t a recorded video but rather a live stream.

Matt Daehler’s face came into frame, a wicked grin carved into his face. “ _Ah, Derek. Nice of you to finally join us. I’m so glad it was you to find my final project._ ” Derek glanced up and noticed the green light next to the webcam on the laptop was lit up. Daehler had rigged it to turn on when the computer awoke. 

Daehler shifted and the rest of the scene was revealed. Stiles. Derek’s breath caught.

_Stiles._

He was tied to a chair, roughly held down by rope and duct tape. He was naked save for his boxers, and Derek could already see rope burns from where he must have struggled in his captivity. Stiles wasn’t gagged, but he wasn’t saying anything. Instead silent tears coursed down his face.

“Stiles!”

Stiles jerked in his bonds as Daehler moved closer. Derek noticed only one of Stiles’ arms was bound to the chair. The other was oddly stretched out on the table next to him, palm down and fingers splayed.

Then Daehler raised a heavy mallet.

“ _No!”_

Stiles’ screams echoed through the empty house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think (because comments are the only sustenance an author needs) here or [here](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com/ask). Only one chapter left, folks!
> 
> A big shout out to [leviathanlost](http://www.leviathanlost.tumblr.com)for staying up with me most of the night to read and edit and make comments on this chapter, and to [lunawho47](http://www.lunawho47.tumblr.com) for being the best beta to ever beta.


	16. Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where everything ends...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, ladies and gents! The end of the first fic I've started in nearly a hundred years... This is the first time I've ever finished something this big, and I hope you don't find it lacking! 
> 
> Without further ado, let's get to reading!

Fire burned through his veins, lightning crackled through his body.

His vision bled red so he could see nothing else.

Agony.

All he felt.

His hand was crushed. Crushed! It was the epicenter of his pain, but it spread like wildfire, blazing through his limbs, turning his chest to ash. Stiles felt himself screaming, his vocal cords raw. His dislocated jaw protesting any movement, but he couldn’t stop. The screams were torn brutally from his lungs.

The end of his left arm no longer felt like a hand. It became an indescribable mass—an epicenter of pain. Red-hot pain shot through his jaw as Matt patted it hard to get his attention.

“How did you like that?” he said slowly, enough to be clearly mocking Stiles’ deafness rather than trying to benefit him. “Gonna be pretty hard to sign now, right?”

Stiles’ screams began anew and tears streamed down his face when Matt prodded his broken hand with the butt of the hammer. Matt then grabbed Stiles’ jaw in his hand, forcing it shut. Stiles could only whimper.

“You know, I really wish you could hear yourself scream. It’s an amazing sound.” Matt took away the hammer, dropping it to the ground. Stiles could only watch warily as Matt’s hand reached for Stiles’ good one. “Unfortunately for you, smashing your hand like that, while extremely gratifying, was over too soon.”

_Snap._

Matt yanked Stiles’ pinky as far back as he could, breaking it easily. He released Stiles’ jaw, allowing him to scream freely. Stiles’ throat was raw from it. There was no way he was producing much sound anymore. Matt didn’t seem to mind. He then snapped his ring finger sideways, and Stiles could _feel_ the crunching of bones grating together.

Blinking away tears, Stiles realised that Matt was waiting for him to focus on the sadistic bastard again.

“I’m going to take away every way you talk, because you opened your big mouth and ruined my life.”

Something glinted and Stiles’ breath hitched in his throat. Matt had brought out a knife!

“First I’m gonna cut your hand up,” Matt said, slicing a line across Stiles’ fingers. “Make sure you bleed red. Then I might cut one or two off.” He pressed a little deeper with the knife into one of Stiles’ fingers.

Chaos erupted. Stiles’ world exploded into light and movement. Hands touched his face, and Stiles flinched hard enough to hit his head on the back of the chair he was tied to. The hands grabbed at his shoulders, squeezing gently.

Slowly, Stiles opened his eyes, blinking away sweat and tears. “Derek?”

Derek was there, kneeling before him, fingers gently digging into the flesh of Stiles’ arms. He nodded, tears of his own tracking down his face. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Stiles let out a sob, completely disbelieving. Derek laid his head on Stiles’ chest, and Stiles sagged into the other boy, resting his head on Derek’s soft hair. “Derek… How—”

His question turned into a cry when something jostled his broken hand. He jerked his head up to look at the source of renewed pain.

“Dad!”

The sheriff was untying Stiles’ wrists. Something in him crumpled, and he let out a sob. He was saved. It was over. It was over…

*******

Derek burst from his desk with a whoop, ripping the paper from the printer, nearly tearing it in two. _I did it!_

Weeks and weeks of searching, dead-end phone calls, and what felt like absolute, fruitless shots in the dark, and he’d finally succeeded! He couldn’t believe it was finally over. Well, the hardest part was over anyway.

The road to recovery had been a long one, and they were all still on it, but maybe now they could see a light at the end of the tunnel. Truth be told, Derek thought he’d been able to see a light for a while, but it was a little dim.

Innumerable therapy sessions—most with Stiles alone, some with Derek, some with the sheriff, and some with all three of them—had definitely helped them all recuperate. Sometimes, though, it was one step forward and two steps back. Stiles would come home completely drained and lash out at the first person to show him sympathy. Derek had long stopped counting the times that Stiles had tried desperately to push him away, either in anger or in a fit of self-deprecation.

“I don’t deserve you, and _you_ don’t deserve _this_ ,” Stiles would say, gesturing to himself. “All I do is hold you back.”

“Stiles, all I do is love you, and want you to feel good about yourself again—feel comfortable in your own skin. And it’s happening, even if you can’t see it yourself,” Derek would retort.

And it was, albeit at an incredibly slow pace. Stiles, after the horrific assault by Daehler, would jump every time someone tried to touch him. He became paranoid, scared of his own shadow. He’d get angry at the world, at his dad, at Derek, even at himself. Then almost immediately he would be remorseful of anything he might have said or done that could be construed negatively, apologising profusely, as though there’d be consequences for his actions. Both Derek and the sheriff were always—at first anyway—quick to respond that there was nothing to be sorry about. Then in therapy, they all learned that it was better to validate Stiles’ feelings and instead try to find a better outlet to vent his frustrations.

After Stiles let it be known that Daehler had threatened to remove all means of communication, it became especially appropriate for him to express himself in any way he could. Stiles timidly put forth that he liked YouTube as a medium, and so a new channel was born. He quickly gained a modest following and support from the community, since there weren’t many videos from deaf people. Stiles made his accessible by adding his own captions, and signing whatever he could with one hand.

Emotional and mental health rehabilitation was only one slice of the pie. Physical therapy was an absolute bitch to deal with, too. Stiles’ severely dislocated jaw was only the tip of the iceberg. His two broken fingers were also relatively simple to deal with, only needing splinting for a few weeks. It was the right hand and wrist that caused the majority of the problems.

Stiles had to go under the knife several times, to have pins and plates and other devices implanted to fix the bones in their proper places. Muscles and tendons and ligaments all had to be painstakingly repaired. He was stuck with monstrous-looking external fixation devices for a few months as they waited for the bones to heal themselves.

It drove Stiles insane to be unable to use his hand for anything. He fretted about how he thought the fixators made him ugly, and that they were going to leave scars. Then he fretted about fretting over that. Derek believed it was all to cover up the fear that he wouldn’t regain any functionality in his hand or wrist, which was a large possibility that hung over all their heads. Daehler had done a number on the hand with that sledgehammer.

Derek shivered as he remembered what had happened after he finally found the right warehouse. Stiles had staggered to his feet and gripped the handle of the sledgehammer tightly, broken fingers or no. Tears streamed down his face as he had looked at Daehler where several deputies—more than was strictly necessary, but Derek definitely hadn’t felt the need to call them out on it—had forced him to his stomach on the ground.

Derek had been about to intervene, but the sheriff beat him to it. He had simply laid a hand on his son’s shoulder, who stilled immediately and began trembling from head to toe. Stiles’ face was a mask of pain and hatred. Finally, he released the sledgehammer and crumpled into the arms of his father. Everybody had the grace to not look around in surprise when the handle dully clattered to the floor of the warehouse, echoing strangely.

Everybody except Matt Daehler, whose eyes alit upon the sledgehammer and widened in shock and fear. He hadn’t realised his life had been in Stiles’ hands.

Derek shook himself out of the memory, telling himself that everything was okay. It was getting better. Stiles was regaining functionality in his hand again little by little. The trial had gone smoothly, until the very end after Daehler’s guilty verdict was announced. He immediately had lunged for Stiles, but the sheriff’s department had been there in full force, quickly shutting the bastard down.

They were all glad it was over.

He rushed out of his supply closet-turned-office only to run into Sheriff Stilinski.

“Did I hear you shout from in there, son?” he asked after they’d straightened themselves out.

“Uh, yeah, sir. Actually, I have some really great news that involves you and Stiles, but I need to tell him first. If that’s okay, sir.”

The sheriff huffed a laugh. “Of course. School going well?”

Derek had been attending the local community college for almost a little over a year now, nearly completing an associate’s degree, and pulling double duty still volunteering at the office. Then it was straight to the sheriff’s department academy.

“Yes, sir. I’m ready to get to the academy in all honesty.”

“I’m sure you are. It’ll be there when you’re done, don’t worry.”

It sounded like there was at least a faint dismissal in there, so Derek turned to go, but the sheriff called after him.

“Oh, and Derek? I hope the good news will cheer him up. He’s been in a mood all day.”

_Maybe the hardest part wasn’t over_ , Derek thought to himself, giving a small smile to the other man.

***********

“Oh, good. You’re home. Well, unfortunately for you, I’m not some fucking housewife, so I don’t have dinner piping hot for you on the table. I can’t do anything right!”

That was what greeted Derek when he walked into the Stilinski household that evening. He decided to let it slide and instead reach for the root of the matter.

“ _How was your day_?” he signed to Stiles, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

Stiles was sat on the couch, looking down at his hands that were laid on his lap after receiving the kiss. “Fucking peachy.”

This was definitely going to prove difficult. Derek took a seat next to him and tipped up his chin with his fingers, moving in slowly for a deeper kiss.

“I love you,” he said while pressing the sign into Stiles’ chest, like he had so many months ago. “Tell me about your day.”

Derek gently took Stiles’ healed hand in his own and started pressing his thumbs into the muscles. Judging by Stiles’ answering moan, he’d done the right thing.

“It was awful,” Stiles began, then launched into a full verbal assault on his experience with physical therapy. Apparently it was another gripping day, which was the worst of all the exercises. His grip was the last thing to really come back in terms of function, and it hasn’t returned fully yet. The muscles and tendons in his hands and fingers were all so tight that it was incredibly difficult to get them to bend the right way.

Today had been especially fruitless. Stiles hadn’t been unable to grip anything for any extended amount of time, and it had frustrated him to the point of tears. He’d actually left early because he was so mad and embarrassed even though the staff at the rehabilitation centre had been nothing but supportive.

Derek simply listened and massaged the hand in his as best he could. When he realised that Stiles had stopped speaking and was just resting his head on Derek’s shoulder, with one leg splayed across Derek’s, he brought Stiles’ in for another kiss. This one lasted…a bit longer. They were both breathless when Derek finally pulled back.

“ _I have something that might cheer you up_ ,” he signed.

“Oh, yeah? Whatcha got for me, big boy?” Stiles laughed and straddled Derek’s lap. It took Derek by surprise, and he nearly fell for the trap. Stiles hadn’t instigated intimacy in weeks. He hadn’t been averse to it, after Derek had gained the confidence to try again after the incident, but he’d never had any inclination to start it himself.

But Derek took every ounce of willpower he had within his soul and pressed a finger against the lips that were swooping in to take his own. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the now slightly crumpled printout and handed it to Stiles.

“What’s this?” he said as his eyes quickly scanned the document. Derek knew the moment he got to the meat of the paper when he froze completely on Derek’s lap. He couldn’t hold back his grin.

“What did you do?”

Derek’s heart dropped into his stomach at Stiles’ flat voice. His mouth dried up and the smile fell from his face. “I…”

“Derek, what the fuck did you do?” Stiles wrenched himself off Derek and threw the paper at him. “I can’t believe…”

Stiles stormed up the stairs and slammed the door.

“Fuck…” Derek breathed out, wiping a hand down his face.

That was much how the sheriff found him an hour or so later: slouched on the couch with his head in his hands.

“Son, why are you sitting in the dark?”

Derek jumped at the man’s words, looking around blearily. He hadn’t even realised it was nighttime.

“I just utterly failed in giving Stiles a surprise.”

Stiles’ dad laughed gruffly. “Do I want to know?”

Wordlessly, Derek handed him the piece of paper. The sheriff scanned it quickly, then jerked his head up to look at Derek with wet eyes. “Is this…?”

“Yeah, it’s all legit. I’ve been researching for months, and talking with this guy for the past couple weeks. I finalised Stiles’ preliminary application earlier this week and it got approved today.”

“Where?” The sheriff’s voice was flat, too, but in a different way, like he was holding back emotion rather than shutting it down.

“Switzerland.”

“Derek, we can’t aff—”

“My parents are waiting on word from me to finish up air, room and board. I just had no idea Stiles would react like this.”

John took a step forward and shocked Derek by enveloping him in a brief yet fierce hug. “The both of you are idiots. I’m honestly surprised you didn’t think he’d be upset over this. I’m not saying you were wrong to do this. I’ll let you figure it out while I go talk to him.”

Derek let out a huff and sat back down as the sheriff disappeared up the stairs. He heard a knock, some muffled words, and then nothing as everything was cut off by the door closing again. He mulled it over and over again, but he still couldn’t—

_Oh, my god_.

He shot up from the couch as soon as he heard the door open and two sets of feet were thudding down the stairs. Stiles reluctantly took a few steps toward Derek.

“I’m sorry I blew up like that. But you know how I feel about—”

“ _Keeping secrets when they affect you. I know. I’m sorry. Can you forgive me?_ ”

Instead of answering, Stiles pressed a kiss to Derek’s lips. “Now, about this research being conducted in Switzerland…”

So Derek hashed out the details how he’d been researching for nearly the past year anything to do with nerve regeneration and hadn’t had much success. Dead-end after dead-end, cold call after cold call… That was until he was finally led to a Dr. Ragatz in Switzerland who had countless successes in regenerating several different types of nerves.

“Okay. I’ll do it.” Stiles grinned at Derek.

Derek beamed back at him, sealing it with a kiss. He pulled out his phone to text his mother only to find that he had two boarding passes already in his email. They were open-ended in case the stay in Europe was extended for any reason. When Derek showed Stiles, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“You’re not coming?”

“I have finals coming up. And this is something you should do with your dad. I’ll be here when you get back.”

The sheriff surprised them both by bringing them in for a group hug.

The next month flew by in a flurry of doctors’ visits, blood tests, X-rays, MRIs, CTs, and every other imaginable test available. Packing was a last minute ordeal, of course. Derek found and booked accommodations for them in the city where the study was being conducted, plus a bonus trip on a train through part of the Alps. He wanted to take a trip through Europe with Stiles, but while he and his father were there, make the best of it, right?

All of a sudden, they were at the airport, with the final boarding call sounding for the Stilinskis’ flight. The entire Hale clan was there, and Elijah and Noah were clinging to Stiles’ legs, trying their hardest not to wail their despair over Stiles’ leaving for a few weeks.

Quickly, Derek took the sheriff aside while the rest of the Hales said their goodbyes to Stiles. He noticed but studiously ignored Stiles’ curious glances as he softly spoke to his boyfriend’s father. He gulped when the man looked back him with a stern expression, but it melted into a smile and he brought Derek in for another hug.

“What was that about?” Stiles asked when the two of them rejoined the group.

“ _I told your dad to make sure you don’t fall in love with any of those European floozies,_ ” Derek signed in response, earning a laugh and a dubious look in return.

“I’m going to miss you,” Stiles said into Derek’s chest when he pulled him into a tight embrace.

Derek tilted Stiles’ chin up for a searing kiss. The twins squealed in disgust.

“ _I’ll be here when you get back. I love you so much._ ”

Stiles nodded, swallowing thickly. He grabbed his carryon, and his dad slung an arm around his shoulders. Too soon they were surrounded by the remaining few who hadn’t yet boarded. The rest of his family left after that, but Derek waited until his heart took off into the open air, leaving behind enough only to deeply feel what it was missing.

Wiping away a tear, Derek turned from the windows overlooking the tarmac and began planning the next phase.

*************

When Stiles and his father finally touched back down in Beacon Hills, he really thought about taking a page out of the good ole’ Pontiff’s book and kissing the ground. But then he focussed on the sounds of this airport, and he laughed, elated at both the differences and the similarities.

That family over there was arguing with a TSA agent over a passport issue. That girl was crying because her dad wouldn’t buy her a candy bar. Stiles slowly realised that he was crying himself, astounded that he could hear again!

His dad was behind him a few steps, watching on with happiness etched into all corners of his face.

“Wipe that grin off your face, old man. You ate so badly on this trip, you’re going to be peeing straight kale juice for the next month when I have my way.”

John Stilinski just rolled his eyes and ruffled Stiles’ hair. Stiles pulled out his phone and punched in Derek’s number after waiting for it to turn on. With a frown, he hit the end icon when it clicked over to voicemail. He refused to let the first time hearing Derek’s voice be a recording.

Something was up, though. Derek had dodged all his calls and texts during the short layover in Chicago. At first, Stiles had panicked, thinking that something had happened to Derek. Messages exchanged with Talia, though, had reassured him that Derek was just incredibly busy studying for finals and gearing up to apply to the academy. So now he was just mad at the bastard.

“Too busy to talk to your goddamn boyfriend who’s been gone for a freakin’ month?”

Stiles eyes widened when he noticed that the Hales—minus one—were all waiting for him, bearing flowers and signs.

“Stiles!” The twins tossed their signs down and ran to him, nearly toppling him over. He couldn’t believe they were all—almost—here!

“Hey guys!”

“You can hear us, Stiles?” Eli asked, gently pulling at Stiles’ earlobe then rubbing his fingers on the bandage wrapped around his head.

“Elijah and Noah Hale. Don’t be rude,” Talia said, scooping the boys out of Stiles’ arms one at a time. She then pressed a kiss to Stiles’ cheek, smudging the lipstick with her thumb. “How are you, Stiles?”

“I’m great, Mrs Hale. It worked!”

The Hales gave ecstatic shouts and rushed to hug him, all voicing their congratulations at once. The miracle was that he could understand it all! After wiping away a few errant tears, Stiles pulled back from the giant group hug.

“Where’s Derek?”

“He couldn’t be here, I’m afraid. Something came up. But he would like you to meet him at this location at five o’clock, if you would.” Talia handed him a slip of paper with her handwriting on it.

“The comic book store? But it’s closed after four thirty.”

“Of course you would know the address and hours of that place. Nobody but you, Stiles,” Laura said with a laugh. “Just do it, you doof. You’ll see why.”

After promises were made to have the two families together for dinner sometime very soon, the Hales left them to get their baggage and return home for the first time in nearly a month and a half.

Stiles immediately let his bags fall to the floor and rushed up the stairs. “I had a dream about you,” he said, touching a comic book on his shelf. “And you were there, and you, and you, and you.” He hugged his entire bookshelf.

“If you can quit being weird in your room, you have just enough time to grab a bite before you have to meet Derek.”

“Why should I give into his demands when he couldn’t even Skype me after I told him the procedure worked?” Stiles said as he shuffled down the stairs.

“Why don’t you just go and find out? I’m sure he has a perfectly reasonable explanation.”

“If I find out you were in cahoots with him, I’ll be adding prunes to those kale smoothies of yours.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just go, will you?”

Stiles grumbled the whole drive over to the bookstore, flying through different variations of just what exactly he had to say to his so-called boyfriend. Pulling into one of the many open spaces in front of the bookstore, he put Roscoe into park. He peered into the windows of the store, and saw…nothing. There was nobody in there. Now he was going to try the door, and it was going to be—unlocked?

A bell jingled as he pushed open the door. At least a small part—okay, a very big part—of his brain was dedicated to the fact he could actually hear it jingle. The rest was intent on the fact he was creepily entering a closed store with nobody inside.

“Hello?”

Nobody answered. He meandered through the aisles, wondering vaguely if this was some sort of trick Derek was playing on him. Then wondering why he’d want to play one like that. He ended up in the place where Derek had insisted on buying him that expensive issue on their first date. With a smile, he picked up a different copy, running his fingers down the artwork on the pages.

“Szcz_sny ‘Stiles’ Stilinski, I love you with every fibre of my being. And I will always love you,” a voice from behind Stiles spoke suddenly. He gasped and the comic book fluttered to the floor. “Will you give me the honour of being your husband?”

Stiles turned around slowly to find Derek on one knee. “Derek…” He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Yes… Yes! Of course!”

Derek laughed and stood up quickly, twirling Stiles around in his arms. “You said yes!”

Breathlessly, they kissed, pouring everything they meant to each other into their lips as they moved against one another. Reaching behind him, Stiles rolled up another comic book and whapped Derek on the head with it.

“Now why the hell didn’t you answer my calls?”

“I wanted the first thing you to hear from me to be your name and my vow: I know we’re young, and we don’t have to rush to get married, but I also know that I’ll never want anybody else and that I want you in my life and to be in yours,” Derek said, wiping away tears from Stiles’ cheeks and then his own.

“You’re such a mushy asshole, you know that? Just for that, I’m not going to tell you how beautiful your voice is to me.”

“Now who’s a mushy asshole?”

Some things had changed, Stiles thought to himself, but he hoped some things never would.

_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End. I can't believe it's actually over. It. Is. Done. This huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. It was a good weight, but it was still there. 
> 
> This was technically an epilogue, as nearly all actionable plot was finished in the last chapter. That's my excuse anyway, if anybody asks why it was so short. I could've made it longer, as there were a lot of details I didn't add in, but if I had done so, it would have made it even more expository than it already was. So I'm going to be typing up a "Factoids Left Out of SiL" post on tumblr [here](http://codarra.tumblr.com/post/130066826239/epilogue-for-silence-is-loudest).
> 
> I know some--maybe all--of you might have questions or concerns, as I probably had the same thoughts. Some of them might be addressed in the above post. Others, feel free to message me on here, leave a comment, or send an ask to my [tumblr.](http://codarra.tumblr.com)
> 
> Also, if you haven't already seen it already, I posted the revised first chapter of my next big project, [_Hope Never Dies_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4738001/chapters/10828667). Subscribe there or to my pseudonym for all works I post! 
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr, I am also known as [codarra](http://www.codarra.tumblr.com), and you are more the welcome to join me there, ask me questions, chat with me, whatever! The more the merrier is what they say, right?


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